Rachel Berry vs The World
by animatedbrowneyes
Summary: Quinn Fabray agreed, against probable laws of nature, social decorum, and order of the cosmos, to date Rachel Berry. But Rachel didn't expect that defending her title, as Quinn's latest sweetheart, would involve facing the League of Seven Evil Exes.
1. A Challenge Accepted

**A new story? Already? Hooray! I thought of the idea when I watched Scott Pilgrim the other day, and absolutely needed to publish it. **

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

**Enjoy my cracky, Faberry brainchild!**

**

* * *

**

In the beginning, Rachel should've theorized all possible outcomes of dating Quinn Fabray.

It wasn't like it was a difficult undertaking. Well, not really. Okay, maybe it warranted a step-by-step Powerpoint, and a mild mental panic attack before she could pluck up the courage to even approach Quinn—(she's intimidating, okay, and it's not like Quinn was known for her kindness)—let alone ask her anything remotely related to dating.

Quinn's reaction was also unexpected.

"Okay," Quinn had answered, shut her locker, and sauntered off to glee practice.

Rachel had been left gaping soundlessly in the corridor, and was ten minutes late to the choir room, earning a puzzled look from Mr. Schuester and surprised glances from the others, because Rachel Berry was never late to glee club. That was just unheard of. Unheard of as Sue Sylvester being nice for a straight year, or Principal Figgins allowing overspending on the school budget, or something wild, like all of the Cheerios getting slushied. Hence, Quinn's acceptance to date was very unprecedented.

She didn't know exactly where her crush on Quinn started. Maybe it was observant appreciation, or the gentleness that Quinn's eyes seemed to hold when she was not insulting someone, making them look like pools of warm hazel instead of cold, hazel orbs. Or the way Quinn seemed to defy all normal boundaries and luck of getting bad traits from one's parents or uncertainty about one's appearance; she just appeared to be stunningly beautiful in every way, almost unfairly.

Rachel internally admitted that, yes, maybe she had been 'admiring' Quinn along. Well, you know, when avoiding slushies and hurtful jibes.

During that practice, Quinn simply looked calm and collected as per usual. How was that possible? Quinn Fabray had agreed to go on a date with Rachel Berry—Rachel Berry!—and was utterly nonchalant about the entire thing. Nothing, not a grimace or a sneer or a defeminizing insult to swipe at Rachel's confidence, just relaxed silence, listening to Mr. Schuester's lesson about some country icon that no one cared about. Who _ever_ listened to Mr. Schue? Or his monologues? That was just unconstitutionally weird.

Rachel dawdled at her chair with her bag, pretending to shuffle her notes into the proper order while Quinn seemed to be spacing out, absently chewing on her pen cap. Normally, Rachel detested such a habit with anyone else but when her eyes unconsciously zeroed in on the action, Quinn's voice broke the silence of the empty room.

"You stare at me a lot, Berry," Quinn observed, amused. "I don't know whether to be creeped out or flattered."

"I don't know either," Rachel blurted out stupidly.

Quinn laughed under her breath.

"Considering the fact you asked me out, I'll take it as a compliment."

"That's g-good. Right, yes. Not being creepy is...good."

"If I've already caused you to stutter without doing anything, I can't wait to see how you react later," Quinn commented with a positively sinful grin. Rachel blushed.

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you agree to a date with me of all people in the first place? Not to rock the metaphorical boat of our first date together, but the last time I voiced something aloud, you threatened to punch me in the face," Rachel remarked tentatively.

Quinn sighed. "I don't know. You're different, I guess."

"Different?"'

"Finn was stupid and a cheater, Puck was too promiscuous and all the baggage we shared wasn't basis for a real relationship, and Sam talked my ear off about Avatar and other lame things, in addition to the fact I'm suspicious of his sexuality...I just want something simple with you," Quinn explained, "and for the 'punch you in the face' comment...I didn't really mean it."

"Oh. But what about the other irreversible quirks of my personality that would continue to irk you? If we were on a date, then you wouldn't be able to escape without a polite excuse—although, I wouldn't begrudge you to be rude to me, considering our history—or the fact that will also probably talk your ear off, quite similar to Sam, except with Broadway hopes and discussions about glee club, I suppose. Or, or, I might accidentally go into an endless tirade about Judaism when you are in fact a loyal Christian!"

Quinn raised an eyebrow as Rachel stopped speaking, apparently finished with her babbling speech.

"All done?"

"Yes."

"Well, from what it sounds like, you're trying to stop this date before it even begins," Quinn stated, trying not to laugh at Rachel's anxiety. Standing up lithely from her seat, she wandered over to the petite brunette, who happened to already be backing up nervously out of instinct, until she bumped into the piano bench, and before she could move, Quinn was there, trapping her against the piano keys with a mischievous grin and impish eyes, and Rachel squeaked, flushing red in embarrassment.

"I think you should relax," Quinn hummed, breath tickling Rachel's skin, and Rachel found herself nodding.

"I want something straightforward, and compared to the others, you're simple. Understand?"

A nod.

"I know your little idiosyncrasies, and they're sweet. I won't be annoyed."

Another bow of Rachel's head, and Quinn leaned closer, brushing her nose with Rachel's.

"You aren't relaxing," Quinn observed, almost inaudibly.

"Hard to," Rachel admitted, agitated with Quinn's promixity. "You aren't making it any easier."

"I don't like making things easy," Quinn murmured, making Rachel shudder slightly. Praise Barbra, the diva thought.

No wonder Rachel jumped into line next—all the silly boys preceding her were crazy about Quinn, and understandably so.

"You are really difficult sometimes."

"One of my traits," Quinn breathed, lips ghosting near Rachel's ear. "Think you can handle it?"

"I'm Rachel Berry," the diva whispered back, "I know what I'm doing."

"I hope you do," Quinn replied—unfathomable knowledge swirling in her gaze—as trademark smirk lifted her lips, and with a graceful twist of her body, was at her seat and slinging her Cheerios duffel over her shoulder before Rachel could even blink. Rachel, still leaning back against the piano keys, blinked at the sudden change of surroundings. Realizing her chance at an undoubtedly dizzying, amazing kiss to end all kisses—(because really, Finn was sort of sloppy and reminded her unpleasantly of a dog, Puck was overly aggressive and Jesse was just too extravagantly forceful)—was ruined, Rachel pouted. Quinn laughed.

"Just have to wait for that one, Berry. So, again, when are we going out?"

* * *

That was two months ago. They had gone on a date, which entailed of a movie, dinner at Rachel's house, and lastly, a walk, where they'd simply talked about anything and everything, ranging from eccentric music tastes to celebrity crushes to reading preferences to what places they'd like to visit in the world.

Quinn was right about the lack of drama in the relationship—it wasn't complicated and lacked any sort of problems or uncertainty, and made Rachel quite happy to experience it, if completely honest. Rachel certainly didn't mind Quinn's aloofness about dating a known slushie target/diva/glee club loser, and Quinn must've enjoyed Rachel's toned down personality when outside of McKinley. When Rachel breached the sensitive subject of appearing as a power couple at school, Quinn froze.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Rach."

"Why not?"

"It's not that I'm not comfortable with you, I am," Quinn hedged, tracing lines along Rachel's forearm, "but I'm more concerned about the backlash from the club."

"Like who?" Rachel demanded.

"Finn, Sam...Puck," Quinn listed off, averting her eyes. "I think that's it..."

"They wouldn't mind," Rachel urged as Quinn's strange, solemn gaze found hers. "They'd just make lecherous suggestions and ask to watch or join while Finn tries not to blush and then makes an excuse to leave the room, all the while muttering 'mailman'. That we can deal with, right?"

"I'll think about it," Quinn countered, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she grumbled. "It's not like I remember this argument anyway."

Quinn grinned devilishly from her side of the bed and rolled over, straddling Rachel with a teasing look in her eye.

"I always make you forget _everything_, don't I?"

Rachel snickered. "Of course you do."

* * *

When Quinn sat down with Rachel at their usual table to wait for Brittany, Santana, Kurt and his new boyfriend Blaine, Mercedes, Tina, and Mike, she didn't greet her secret girlfriend with a customary smile and wave, showing their 'friendship'. No, instead, she leaned down and kissed Rachel firmly on the mouth before pulling away to sneer at a gaping cafeteria, with dumbstruck, flabbergasted Rachel, sitting still, as loud clatters of dropped lunch trays fell to the floor, demonstrating utter shock and amazement.

"I'm dating Rachel, does anyone have a problem with that?"

Nervous shakes of heads and muttered, submissive refusals immediately followed under the Head Cheerio's glower, and normal conversation started up anew, with only a few glances at them any indication of what had just occurred. Rachel was still frozen in place when the others arrived, looking mildly astonished.

"I think you broke her," Tina observed. "She looks catatonic."

"Maybe she's on dentist medication again," Mercedes suggested.

"Nope, that was all Quinn," Santana interjected, smirking, when Rachel finally blinked.

"Is this real life?"

"Sure she isn't on meds again?" Mercedes asked pointedly.

"Thought we were a secret," Rachel mumbled perplexedly to Quinn, who shrugged, twisting a strand of Rachel's hair around her finger.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Mike questioned seriously, his voice low.

Santana picked up on his drift and nodded vigorously, and Brittany copied her.

"Yes. Let me explain first, you idiots. She deserves that much," Quinn insisted, trying to get Rachel to eat something. Rachel chewed obediently on a carrot, still starry-eyed and dreamy, until Blaine took pity on her and made sure the brunette didn't accidentally eat something non-vegan. That would be a catastrophe of epic proportions. Blaine was new, having transferred from Dalton Academy to be with Kurt, but the ex-star of the Warblers was very familiar with a Rachel Berry blowup. And it wasn't pretty.

"Don't wait too long, Quinn," Brittany advised. "We won't."

"Brittany, please don't try to be ominous or sinister," Quinn admonished. "You aren't scary enough."

"Okay!"

"Make sure she's ready soon," Mike warned quietly, standing up from the table with Brittany and Santana with a bewildered Tina wondering why he was leaving, "because we're all ready. We've been ready for this exact moment. If she's your real girlfriend, a contender for your affections, we'll be extremely...ready. She better be ready...also."

"_Yes_, Mike, thank you," Quinn replied irritably, and the trio of male dancer and two Cheerios departed from the cafeteria, whispering.

"I...am missing something," Tina declared, confused.

"Is Mike on something too?"

"'Cedes, why must you always assume someone is under the influence?" Kurt sighed.

"I watch _CSI_, Kurt. I'm thinking of being a police officer just in case my singing doesn't go through, which it will, obviously, but I'm just practicing," Mercedes explained.

"Ignoring this irrelevant conversation and extreme _waste_ of my time," Quinn interrupted, "Rachel, you have to pay attention."

"Huh?"

"This is very important if we're going to date at all," Quinn persisted. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah," Rachel answered, sitting up from her slouch, "I mean, yes. I am. Listening...to you."

"Right. Okay, in order for us to properly date, you'll have to defeat my Seven Evil Exes."

"Excuse me?"

"Hold on," Kurt and Mercedes exclaimed.

"I'm lost," Blaine murmured. "McKinley's weird..."

"They're all evil?" Tina mused. "Bummer."

"I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that," Rachel insisted. "I have to do _what_?"

"You have to defeat my Seven Evil Exes," Quinn repeated calmly.

"But I—when did you—_seven_?" Rachel sputtered. When did Quinn have seven ex-boyfriends? Rachel could only think of three (ish)!

"You said you could handle dating me, remember?"

"Well, I did, yes, but—"

"Then you can handle this," Quinn declared earnestly. "It's not that bad."

"Not that bad," Rachel squeaked. "Not bad at all. Nope. Wrong! Wrong, completely wrong, Quinn! Not only will I have to 'defeat' a list of your ex-boyfriends, which apparently won't be opposed to hitting a girl (how savage), I have to take down seven of them! If I choose to do this insane idea, mind you. Who thought of this anyway?"

"The seventh ex," Quinn elaborated, rolling her eyes. "And you should choose to do this, because we can't date if you don't."

"Wait, isn't that a little presumptuous?" Blaine questioned.

"I have to agree, it's impossible," Kurt nodded.

"You don't think I can do it?" Rachel demanded, offended, rounding on the two boys.

"No! That's not what we meant!" Kurt yelped.

"Kurt and I just believe that it's a little unfair to you," Blaine offered weakly. Maybe Dalton was a safer place, the boy thought.

"Wait!" Tina exclaimed suddenly, comprehension dawning on her. "Is Mike one of your exes?"

"Not now, Tina," Mercedes hissed. "This is some real daytime drama going down. Shh!"

"No," Rachel slammed her hand down on the table, making the other occupants jump, alarmed. "No! I will do this, and I will win! Time and time again, Rachel Berry has been faced with adversary and turmoil, dodged projectiles, bullies, and heartbreak, but this is one challenge I will unquestionably win without any shadow of doubt! Quinn Fabray, consider your challenge accepted," Rachel declared to a proud, admiring blonde, "and tell your..._seven_...evil ex-boyfriends that I will be ready for their attacks."

Quinn grinned as Mercedes rolled her eyes, Kurt slapped his own forehead, and Blaine sighed.

Tina simply ate her lunch in peaceful silence, content to just watch the spectacle as it came. Rachel did always provide entertainment to McKinley High.

**RACHEL BERRY**

**GLEE CLUB CAPTAIN/TONS OF OTHER CLUBS/KNOWN DIVA**

**16 YEARS OLD**

**RATING**: Undetermined

"Now if you'll all excuse me," Rachel announced, standing up from the table, "I must practice—"

"—singing—" Kurt guessed tiredly.

"—ballet—" Mercedes muttered, rolling her eyes again.

"—debate skills—" Blaine suggested helpfully.

"—my _karate_," Rachel concluded pompously, eyes shining with the challenge, and flounced away from them, as Quinn watched her leave.

"She'll win," Tina remarked. "She's fierce like that."

"I hope she does," Quinn replied, pleased. "Because she's definitely the hottest out of anyone I've dated before. That whole speech was so..._hot._"

"Images, images burning into my brain," Kurt whined. "Thanks a lot, Quinn."

"No problem, Kurt."

* * *

This would not be an issue, she decided. It wouldn't. Rachel was confident she could triumph over this, as she had triumphed over issues that had plagued her since the beginning of her high school career. All relationships had their rough patches, right? And she was Rachel Barbra Berry, who never backed down from a challenge. She won Sectionals for the club last year, she could definitely do this. Facing seven malicious ex-boyfriends of her current girlfriend wouldn't be hard. It'd be easy, almost. Right?

She was only slightly worried.

"Rachel! Rachel!"

"Who's there?" Rachel yelped into the silent corridor, hands held in front of her defensively.

It was only Jacob Ben Israel, and for once, he didn't appear to have an ulterior motive to speak with her. Instead, he simply held out a sheet of paper and a pen.

**JACOB BEN ISRAEL**

**REPORTER/BLOGGER/STALKER EXTRAORDINAIRE**

**16 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Just plain creepy

"What's this?" She questioned, as his repeatedly silent urging for her to scrawl her signature became annoying.

"It's a wavier," Jacob answered, when she'd signed it. "You just signed off to accept and attempt to block or parry any verbal and/or physical aggression in the event of facing Quinn Fabray's Seven Evil Exes and that you are forbidden to contact the ACLU in the event of your inevitable loss to the aforementioned League of Evil Exes."

"You don't think I can do it?" Rachel fumed. "Unbelievable! From a fellow Jew, too! How dare you?"

"It's just a statistical fact, Rachel," Jacob apologized. "You're facing seven...exes and the odds are stacked against you. I had a bookie check for me. It's a raw deal."

"Who sent you?" The brunette demanded. "Who am I facing first?"

"I can't say," Jacob stammered, and without warning, sprinted from her, disappearing down the hallway.

"I'll defeat you too if I have to!" Rachel called angrily after him, and huffed. She achieve this victory with flying colors or die trying. Quinn was hers and she wouldn't allow a group of silly, jealous boys to take the blonde away from her. And yes, reader, before you ask, she was _that_ committed. What'd you expect? Laziness from Rachel Berry?

Yeah, _right._

_

* * *

_

Her first adversary was slightly expected. It had been three days of nonstop paranoia and looks over her shoulder, which Quinn only made worse by distracting her.

"We're a couple, Rachel," Quinn whined. "Why can't I kiss you _now_?"

Rachel shut her locker, leveling a stern glare. "Because, as lovely as that would be, it would be the perfect time to attack me, when I would be otherwise preoccupied."

"I think you're being a little impractical."

"I disagree, I am simply trying to be ready," Rachel shot back. "You know, so I can _continue_ having a relationship with you."

"I didn't make the rules, they did," Quinn countered. "They're just trying to make you prove your worth. They have very high standards."

"Oh, I'm definitely worthy."

"I know you are. I said that, slightly differently, multiple times last night," Quinn admitted, looking sheepish. Rachel smirked.

Before Quinn could employ with a patented smirk of her own, a thunderous boom echoed down the hallway, the origin from a megaphone's horn.

"RACHEL BERRY!" The megaphone roared. "IT IS I, THE FIRST OF QUINN FABRAY'S EVIL EXES!"

Rachel squinted at the boy behind it, and with a raise of her eyebrows, turned to a surprised, bashful Quinn.

"You _dated_ Mike Chang?"

"He'll explain," Quinn answered timidly.

Mike strutted past jocks and geeks, shoving them aside and storming past squealing, indignant Cheerios, as the entire hallway stared after him, and at his clothes. Instead of wearing his normal casual attire of jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket, Mike Chang was clad from head to toe in onyx-colored fabric, with obsidian gloves, a dark scarf around his neck, and black Adidas sneakers. In his left hand were two sheathed swords, and in his right, the megaphone, which he tossed to a helpful Jacob Ben Israel, just walking by.

"You're a ninja today," Rachel squeaked. "You just illustrated a stereotype. Well done."

"Yes. I am the first of Quinn Fabray's Seven Evil Exes," Mike declared, handing her a sword with practiced smoothness.

"You mentioned that," Rachel pointed out unnecessarily.

"Oh. Right," Mike replied. "Anyway, Quinn and I shared our first and only kiss in the second grade. She had fallen off the swings, and I kissed her to make her feel better."

"I remember that," Quinn mused needlessly. "I did feel better."

"Therefore, I am the first, in order of importance," Mike added, and drew out his sword, which Rachel recognized as an unmistakable samurai weapon of choice.

"That's a samurai sword," Rachel observed. "You're a ninja. They're completely different."

"Ninjas and samurai are part of Japanese culture," Mike grumbled petulantly. "I can mix and match if I want to."

"No," Rachel insisted, hearing Quinn sigh and several jocks mutter impatiently, waiting for the fight, "Samurai were of noble birth and served the Emperor alone. Ninjas were of lower class and were usually disloyal mercenaries, thus being of lower status to the elite samurai. In addition to your wardrobe mostly leaning to a ninja's choice of garments, you have chosen a weapon used predominantly by samurai when ninjas mostly used shorter swords, namely the _katana_ and smaller daggers with a combination of darts and _shuriken_, those star-shaped discs. This renders your entire outfit incorrect, if completed with the sword. Mike, your facts are mostly faulty."

"Where'd you learn that, Rach?" Quinn questioned curiously.

"Documentaries on the History Channel with my father, Leroy."

"Rachel, they're both Japanese and I'm Asian anyway, so it counts," Mike exclaimed irritably. "For once, stop your silly prattling and FIGHT ME!"

**MIKE CHANG**

**EXCELLENT DANCER/PROBABLE FUTURE BODYGUARD**

**16 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Impressive

Rachel unsheathed her own sword and the hallway scrabbled to move out of the line of fire, and Quinn flattened herself against a locker, watching intently.

**[VS MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: MIKE CHANG, RACHEL BERRY]**

Mike and Rachel circled, both waiting on the other to make the first move. Sue Sylvester took one glance at the scene as she walked by, shrugged, and continued on.

"Your move, Rachel," Mike offered.

"Stop being so nice, Mike," Rachel snapped. "You challenged me, you make the first move."

"Fine!"

A clash of metal on metal echoed off the walls as the two competitors jumped into battle, swords flying with deadly precision and accuracy. Students hastily avoided the melee as it quickly moved into the cafeteria, as Rachel and Mike jumped from table to table, weapons colliding with a shower of noisy sparks, both opponents fiercely continuing their brawl. Mike swung his sword sideways, the blade slicing through nothing—Rachel had dodged—and stumbled slightly, nearly falling off the table. Rachel aimed a kick into Mike's chest and he sailed through air, landing hard on the salad bar, and sat up, infuriated, covered in lettuce and various toppings, including dressing.

"There's no chicken feet in this salad," Mike grumbled. "I love chicken feet. And you _ruined_ my ninja outfit!"

"Too bad," Rachel replied coolly, and Mike jumped off the counter, recreating the fray and the two rivals had swords slamming together with horrible screeches.

Parrying one of Mike's swipes, Rachel swung her sword like a baseball bat and it sliced clean through Mike's abdomen. Rachel dropped her sword, hands covering her mouth.

"Oh my God, oh my God, Mike!"

Mike could only muster a weak grin before he exploded into a dozen coins, his sword clattering to the floor. There was a silence, and then loud cheers erupted in the cafeteria. Rachel stood, frozen, as hands clapped her on the back and Quinn leaned down, appearing out of nowhere, and kissed her, momentarily brightening her mood.

"I killed Mike," Rachel whimpered. Quinn snickered, as the dancer materialized on the brunette's left, grinning.

"No, you didn't," Mike replied helpfully, dressed normally again and stooping down to pick up the coins and pressing them into her palm. "These are for you."

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +200 POINTS, +15 HEALTH, AND A LEVEL UP. EXCELLENT!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S ****NEW RATING: **Cool**]**

"I can't accept these," Rachel insisted. "They were part of your anatomy, Michael. That would be disturbing to keep them."

"No, not anymore," Mike said. "I was granted temporarily regeneration, so just don't try to kill me again. Once is enough. Those coins though, _will_ help you in the future."

"Yeah, you could buy me some candy," Quinn purred. "You know I love candy as much as I love—"

"That's my cue to go," Mike shrieked, and hurried away from them, his ears reddening in mortification.

Quinn laced Rachel's fingers with her own, and led the mumbling diva back to her locker, kindly handing her the textbooks she needed for the rest of the day.

"I did it," Rachel breathed. "I won!"

"Not yet," Quinn advised sternly. "Just the first one. You have six more Evil Exes to defeat. Can you handle it?"

"I'm Rachel Berry," Rachel declared. "I can handle anything."


	2. Silly Boys, Quinn's All For Rachel

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

**This chapter isn't as funny as the first, but I'm sort of pleased with it, I guess. It's still cracky, though, trust me. Hope it is enjoyed!**

_**

* * *

**_

In the aftermath of her first success against the infamous League of Evil Exes, Rachel's responsibilities as a student did not cease one bit—they continued with upmost persistence, as if the entire world didn't want her to keep Quinn Fabray for herself. Well, she didn't mind taking on the world. One more thing to her list, then. Whatever.

"Mr. Schuester," Rachel raised her hand, interrupting him mid-speech. "I have a request."

"I can't allow you to have every Barbra Streisand song," Mr. Schue retorted immediately, jumping to conclusions yet again.

"That is not my original intention, but we will discuss your _absurd_ response later...anyway, I must ask you for an extension on my report on Peru," Rachel announced.

"What? Why, you're normally an excellent student," Mr. Schue questioned, confused. "You've always gotten everything in on time."

"To be frank," Rachel answered apologetically, "I'm in the fight of my life right now. It requires all of my attention."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's true," Tina nodded. "Rachel's in a life-or-death situation at the moment."

"Yeah, she chopped Mike in half the other day," Mercedes supplied.

Mike grinned.

"And she can't concentrate on a stupid report if she's busy fighting off my exes," Quinn added, stroking Rachel's arm. "She'll be busy."

"I'm watching you, Finn Hudson," Rachel declared warningly, when the boy sniggered under his breath.

"I didn't say anything," Finn replied innocently, fist-bumping Puck.

"I don't understand," Mr. Schuester interrupted. "Are you...are any of you on Vitamin D again? You're acting extremely...different."

"No!"

"Of course not."

"You think that much of us?"

"That was your crazy wife, not us," Santana remarked, eyeing him in disdain. "She gave it out."

"Ex-wife," Mr. Schuester countered automatically. "But I don't follow this."

"Basically, Mr. Schue, I have to defeat seven of Quinn's seemingly villainous exes in order to continue dating her," Rachel explained. "So far, I have only dealt with Mike, but obviously, there are six remaining, some even in this room. I don't know when they'll attack, or who next, to be honest, and as Quinn said, I can't write your time consuming report when I'm busy either defending myself or researching how to perform a blitz without an army."

"She's like Napoleon Bonaparte," Artie muttered. "Short and a military genius..."

"So, how did you 'defeat' Mike?" Mr. Schuester asked curiously, in spite of himself. "And you're dating Quinn? Really?"

Quinn sighed at his ignorance and lack of functioning _eyes—_obviously they were dating, why else would she be trying to cop a feel?—and nodded when Rachel didn't reply, who was busy rolling her eyes.

"She sliced me in half, like Mercedes said," Mike answered. "Awesome sword fight. I totally felt like I was Jackie Chan."

"Metaphorically, Rachel, or—"

"No, literally," Rachel insisted impatiently. "There were over twenty witnesses to the event. Mike exploded into dozens of coins when I defeated him, quite similar to a videogame. And then I bought some Junior Mints for Quinn to have with the money I received, along with a level up for my troubles, which is good, because I needed one."

"I'm jealous," Brittany mumbled offhandedly. "I love Junior Mints."

"I get you some later, B," Santana consoled. Brittany brightened.

Mr. Schuester stared at the glee club, nonplussed. What exactly were they smoking?

**MR. WILLIAM SCHUESTER**

**SPANISH TEACHER/GLEE CLUB DIRECTOR**

**32 YEARS OLD**

**RATING:** Oblivious as Helen Keller

"I guess I just had to be there," Mr. Schue replied weakly, looking awkward. "Right?"

"You'll probably see one at some time or another," Rachel shrugged, uncaring. "So...can I have that extension?"

* * *

"So, honey," Hiram addressed, "how was school today?"

"And glee practice?" Leroy inquired.

"Oh, they both went...fine," Rachel answered quietly, pushing her uneaten food around on her plate. "The usual."

"Is everything okay?" Leroy asked, scrutinizing his daughter's expression. "You seem..."

"Distracted," Hiram completed. "Did someone slushie you again?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Rachel replied. "Really."

"What's bothering you, then?" Hiram asked.

"I was wondering how to maneuver a roundhouse kick without exposing vulnerability to an opponent," Rachel mused. "But it may be impossible. May I be excused?"

"Sure, but—"

"Thank you!"

The brunette was gone before her father could finish, the sound of running feet and the slam of a door the only clue that their daughter had been there in the first place.

"Should I be worried?" Hiram wondered, setting his silverware down on the table.

"Probably," Leroy nodded. "It is Rachel, after all."

* * *

"Hey," Quinn smiled as Rachel entered her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. "Surprise!"

"I like surprises," Rachel offered coyly, grinning. "How'd you get in?"

"I scaled the side of your house," Quinn admitted. "It took, like, an hour to do it, because I didn't want your dads to see me and I fell on my back...twice. But I'm here, finally."

"Did you get hurt?"

"No, it was more of a shock than anything."

Quinn patted the spot on the bed beside her. Rachel agreeably laid down, resting her head on Quinn's chest, listening to the cheerleader's heartbeat.

"Who are your other exes, besides the three I already know and Mike?"

"I can't tell you," Quinn chided. "That would spoil the surprise. Don't you like surprises?"

"Not this kind," Rachel grumbled moodily. "Stupid boys...steal _my_ girlfriend...ridiculous..."

"I know you'll win," Quinn encouraged. "You're way better than all of my exes. Really."

"I know I am."

"And there goes the modesty. _Adios_, humility."

"I'm not modest?"

"No, Rachel."

"I'm not modest in the special way you like, though. That's completely different."

"True," Quinn acquiesced playfully. "I don't mind that one."

Rachel smirked until a text vibrated her phone, interrupting her not-so-innocent train of thought.

Quinn reached over to the nightstand, and handed it to her. Flipping it open, and promptly scowling, Rachel muttered about radical preparations and drastic measures.

"What did it say?"

Rachel handed the phone over, and Quinn eyed the screen: **UNKNOWN NUMBER**.

**7:49PM — PREPARE DIE TOMORROW, BERRY. DRESS COMFORTABLY.**

"Morons," Quinn scoffed. "I can't believe I _dated_ this kind of stupidity."

"I know!" Rachel exclaimed. "'Dress comfortably'? Why?"

"Apparently, so they can kill you," Quinn deadpanned. "Maybe not ruining your precious sweaters in the process."

"Well," Rachel declared, jumping up and striding to her computer. "I have to organize my defensive agenda."

"How?" Quinn complained. "You don't know what's coming. And we were about to—"

"Quinn, I don't have time for that," Rachel insisted. "They're toying with me. It's a common psychological strategy."

"But I climbed a wall for you," the blonde whined, sulking.

"That was lovely, thank you," the diva nodded sympathetically, "but I have to prepare for tomorrow, which involves researching war tactics and learning a few simplified judo moves, as well as practicing my karate. I will also be playing brain teasers and chess on my computer, in the event of a mental attack, however unlikely that may be, because your exes are generally dimwitted. Unless you'd like to cuddle with me later, which I could _possibly_ fit in to my schedule."

"...fine."

* * *

"By dress comfortably, I'm pretty sure they didn't mean this," Quinn observed, sighing.

Rachel had decided to wear dark jeans, a black shirt, and had painted two horizontal lines under her eyes—referred to as eyeblack—quite similar to a football player's habit, and adorned running sneakers, all instead of her normal outfit of a sweater, skit, and loafers. Rachel rolled her eyes.

"The message cautioned me to be comfortable, and I am, along with stealthy."

"You look silly."

"For the umpteenth time, Quinn, I am unquestionably prepared to defend myself if necess—"

"RACHEL BERRY!" A familiar voice roared, and the brunette and her blonde counterpart turned to look at the smug, handsome face of one Noah Puckerman, standing tall on his truck bed. "I TOLD YOU TO PREPARE, AND AS QUINN FABRAY'S SECOND EVIL EX-BOYFRIEND, I CHALLENGE YOU TO A RACE!"

**NOAH 'PUCK' PUCKERMAN**

**STUDENT/JUVENILE DELINQUENT/INSATIABLE SEX SHARK**

**17 YEARS OLD**

**RATING:** Undeniably badass, more than _you'll_ ever be

"No way," Quinn groaned.

"Don't fret, Quinn," Rachel stated, not taking her eyes off Puck. "I'll win it."

Puck stood, arms crossed, as Rachel wandered over to him, earning looks from other students, all recalling Berry's wicked moves from a few days ago, decimating Mike Chang.

"Berry."

"Puckerman."

"I'm your second foe, obviously," Puck explained, as if reciting a speech. "I count because I gave Quinn emotional support—"

"—_support_, more like wine coolers and telling her the obvious—"

"—and because she was my baby mama," the jock concluded, ignoring her comment. "Understand?"

"Let's get this show on the road," Rachel proclaimed impatiently. "Where are we racing?"

"In Lima, of course," Puck answered, eyes gleaming. "With a few conditions..."

* * *

"How did you manage this?" Rachel gasped.

All the streets of Lima—every _single_ one—were deserted, lacking other civilians besides the jock and diva. Parked cars were still there, although scattered. An uneasy hush seemed to befall the roads and center of town, as if all humanity had been blighted off the face of the earth and she and Puck were the only ones left, which would have been a certainly dramatic twist of fate, just the two of them. Well, except for the chattering glee club, just arrived behind them by several carpools, and that suspicious old lady over in the distance, scowling and walking her dog, mumbling something that sounded oddly like, "damn teenagers, making a ruckus" and narrowing her eyes.

"I made JewFro spread a story about a sewer flooding," Puck replied, smiling proudly. "And an earthquake warning. Supposedly, those two together can make a sinkhole or something awesome like that. So, yeah, no one's outside."

"We live in Ohio," Rachel retorted critically. "That makes commute hours inconvenient."

"Tough shit."

"And it's nearly eight in the morning," the diva continued. "Your prank won't last long, you know."

"Long enough," Puck countered, waving a dismissive hand. "If you can defeat me, of course."

"I will," Rachel declared determinedly. "Make no mistake, Noah Puckerman. I will end you."

Puck chuckled.

"I wouldn't laugh, Puck," Mike called. "She's sick with a sword!"

"This challenge doesn't involve swords, Chang," Puck remarked simply.

"What does it involve?" Rachel demanded. "I will _destroy_ you if that's what it takes to keep Quinn."

Quinn visibly, and uncharacteristically, swooned. Santana rolled her eyes.

"Damn," Artie muttered appreciatively. "She's totally sexy when she's angry. I never noticed it."

"Abrams," Quinn growled. Artie blanched at her ire, and intelligently chose to look away. Smart boy, that Artie Abrams.

"I _told_ you, it's a race," Puck answered. "But with conditions."

"Must you repeat yourself?" Rachel complained. "State your trial or forfeit!"

"We'll be racing a marked course," Puck clarified, glaring at her. "Three times around, and then back here is the final finish line. There will be obstacles, Berry. If you lose—"

"—I won't—"

"—you'll have to back off Quinn," the jock surmised. "No funny business behind our backs or ACLU."

"I know, I know, I signed the wavier," Rachel grumbled. "Are we going to talk all day or are we going to race?"

Puck heaved an aggravated sigh, and stomped off heavily to his truck. Rachel shrugged.

Quinn bounded over to Rachel, and planted a kiss on her lips. "Good luck, baby."

"Thank you, Quinn. I assure you, I will be victorious."

Quinn stooped slightly, fixing a Bluetooth device on Rachel's left ear and smoothing her hair back into place.

"There. We'll all be on the same conference call, so you and Puck can talk to us while you drive."

"Safely, too. I approve."

Quinn gave her another kiss and skipped to the starting line, and held out a pom-pom high over her head.

Rachel eased her Volkswagen New Beetle up to the line as the club began to cheer, while Rachel was checking her mirrors and tightening her seatbelt.

You can never be too safe, the brunette mused.

"Really?" Puck protested from his truck, leaning out the window. "A pom-pom?"

"Quiet, Puckerman," the blonde chastised. "Unless you'd like to lose to my girlfriend?"

"He will," Rachel interjected firmly. Puck scoffed.

"Fuck that, I'm ready."

"Ready?" Quinn hollered, and swung the pom-pom down to her feet. "GO!"

* * *

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: NOAH 'PUCK' PUCKERMAN, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[COURSE: LIMA RACE TRACK**—**STREETS****]**

**

* * *

**

The two engines roared and sped off, as the glee club simultaneously held their phones to their ears, listening to the already furious argument between Rachel and Puck.

"—completely immature of you to even suggest that—"

"—just a sexy idea, Berry, don't flip your shit—"

"—Quinn Fabray is mine, Puckerman, not yours, and I swear, I _will_ castrate you—"

Rachel swerved suddenly, tires squealing as she avoided, dare she say it, a _turtle_ shell? What in the world?

"See that one, Berry?"

"I did," Rachel acquiesced nervously. "A turtle shell, how odd..."

"Oops!" Puck cackled. "Forgot to mention this isn't just any race, it's real life Mario Kart!"

A shimmering, orange _2_ materialized on Rachel's far right, unmistakably informing her of her inferior place in the race.

Puck was winning! This would not do. Rachel pressed harder on the gas pedal.

"Mario Kart?" Finn's voice hissed into the earpiece. "Holy shit!"

"I've infiltrated the security cameras on the streetlights," Artie's excited mutter crackled on the line. "We can now see their progress on my laptop for the rest of the competition!"

"Faster, Rachel!" Tina clamored animatedly.

"That's hot, tell her again—OW! God dammit, Rachel!" Puck yelped, mid-innuendo, his truck steering sideways. Rachel had clipped his bumper with her own, and streaked past in a reddish blur, her wheels zooming over a glowing, colorful strip of pavement, sending her Beetle flying forward like a bullet from a gun.

"Whoa," Rachel breathed.

"Those are the fast plates in the game!" Brittany yelled, clapping. "Good job, Rachel!"

**[CURRENT FIRST PLACE: RACHEL BERRY]**

Puck scowled sullenly, eyeing the crimson Beetle currently in the lead, and drove straight through a glassy, slowly rotating cube, with a cheerful ding succeeding the action. A quick list of options hovered to the left of Puck's windshield, and the boy eagerly chose his selection, pressing a button on his radio, with an obnoxious buzz following it.

This _was_ Mario Kart, after all.

"EAT LIGHTNING, BITCH!" Puck roared.

Rachel's exclamation of confusion was drowned out as a deafening clash of thunder boomed in the distant, clear sky, and with a louder sizzle of ozone, a bright, single strip of lightning hurdled itself to earth and slammed to the roof of Rachel's Volkswagen, making the car shudder and shrink slightly in size.

"Huh?" Rachel squeaked, crammed into the suddenly disproportional vehicle. "What happened?"

Puck shot by her, howling with laughter, while Rachel could only putter along at a grandmother's speed, which was way too slowly.

**[CURRENT FIRST PLACE: NOAH 'PUCK' PUCKERMAN]**

"Oh, no!" Kurt squawked, as Blaine shook his head gravely at the latest turn of events. "He made you shrink!"

"It'll go back to normal, right?"

"...probably!"

Puck's truck was about a mile away when the Beetle surged, shivering, and returned to its usual mass and volume, and Rachel stomped on the pedal, eyes flashing with anger. Puck's truck, although in first place, lacked the power of Rachel's more modern engine design. Growling quietly in frustration, the brunette frowned suspiciously at the gleaming, silvery crate, suspended illogically in the air, but maneuvered through it anyway, where a scrolling inventory of options floated helpfully next to her window.

Thinking the decision over, she pushed a new, mysterious tuner on her dashboard.

The effect was delayed, however, as both cars passed the start/finish line, ending the first loop of the race.

**[LAP (S): 1/3 COMPLETED]**

With a triumphant sneer, Rachel yelled into her Bluetooth as a glob of black goo suddenly hovered near Puck's truck: "EAT INK, YOU DICKHEAD!"

"Where'd Rachel learn that language?" Kurt questioned disapprovingly.

Quinn hummed innocently, averting her eyes, while Puck's bellow of rage sparked loudly into their phones.

"ARGH!"

Windshield smeared entirely with sluggish black tar, Puck veered right, scraping a ghastly scratch along the side of his car with another parked automobile. Unable to see, he drifted from side to side as if he was a drunken driver, while an impatient Beetle practically rode his rear bumper, anticipating an opening to clinch the lead.

"Idiot, move already," Rachel ordered resentfully, baring her teeth. "Trying to drive here!"

"Bite me, Berry."

"Fuck you!"

"Berry learned a few swears, alert the media," Santana proclaimed, grinning.

"She's got some _serious_ road rage," Mercedes commented, impressed, pointing out the identifying red dot on Artie's laptop display of the competiton. "She's not giving up."

"Has she even played Mario?" Sam wondered. "If not, she'll be a beast at it."

Dodging another spinning turtle shell, Rachel exhaled deeply, and sped forward, becoming neck-in-neck with Puck.

Rounding a corner, Rachel's eyes widened in alarm as a raised platform sat directly in the middle of the track. Puck snickered and pushed ahead, as Rachel drove shrewdly around it, dismayed to find Puck in the lead once again, due to the air advantage gained. That floating, glowing _2_ seemed to be mocking her.

"Use those next time, Rachel," Artie advised. "They get you further without anything in the way."

"Got it."

"Don't worry, Rach," Brittany cheered. "You'll win it!"

"Don't _I_ get support?" Puck complained, gripping the steering wheel tighter in concentration.

"I'm on your side, Puck," Finn offered surreptitiously, followed by Sam and a smirking Santana. Brittany sighed.

When another ramp was sighted on the horizon, Rachel filed her sensibility away for another time and zoomed her Beetle fluidly over it, soaring through the air—if only her fathers could see this, no, wait, scratch that, they'd get heart palpitations—and landing with a hard rattle of her axels and a jolt of the car frame, and unexpectedly rammed into Puck's truck, forcing him into a second parked car and yet another hideous scratch on his paint job. Rachel squinted at the familiar checkpoint in the distance.

"Go, Rachel, go!" Quinn yelled.

Rachel sailed through the start/finish line, and Puck followed soon after, swearing mutinously. No _way _was Rachel going to beat him.

**[LAP (S): 2/3 COMPLETED]**

**[CURRENT FIRST PLACE: RACHEL BERRY]**

Heart pounding excitedly with exhilaration and high spirits, Rachel hastened onward, beaming. She could do this. She could—_would_—win.

Hopeful to destroy Rachel's annoyingly unshakeable confidence, Puck delightedly rushed through an additional, translucent cube of choices to slow down his opponent, picked his hindrance, and watched in gleeful vengeance as a yellow object appeared out of nowhere and skidded right under Rachel's tires with a disgusting _splat_, making the Volkswagen skew sideways on the road, the tires screeching madly with Rachel's panicky effort to focus and correct her driving.

"A banana?" Rachel cried. "Really?"

"It's in the actual game, Berry!" Puck crowed. "Suck it!"

**[CURRENT FIRST PLACE: NOAH 'PUCK' PUCKERMAN**]

"Puckerman," Quinn warned through the Bluetooth. "Say that again and I'll rip your ears off."

"Oh my God!" Rachel yelled, the squeal of tires becoming a steady whine on the conference call. "I'm hydroplaning! I'm hydroplaning! Oh my God, I'm going to die! AHHH!"

The Beetle spun and swerved like a top, slowing to a stop in reverse of the destination she needed, a cloud of dust rising in the air when the car finally stopped moving.

"Hurry, Rachel!" Quinn shouted in her ear. "Puck's getting away!"

Grinding her teeth in determination and purpose, Rachel executed (as calmly as possible) a perfect three-point turn—while various glee club members shrieked urgent reminders in her ear—and when facing the appropriate direction, promptly pummeled the gas pedal, using several colored strips to quicken her car's pace.

Puck was still a long ways away, but Rachel was gaining ground, and swiftly. She wasn't going down without a fight.

When Rachel could see Puck's truck, only three cars's distance from her Beetle, she suddenly realized his weakness: arrogance. Puck still believed he could win, regardless of her little tricks. Well, that wouldn't be happening. She would need to rely on smarts and logic, not silly obstacles. As her speedometer tentatively rose to sixty miles per hour, and Puck's truck bumper just was a hair's breadth from hers, she used a conveniently placed, colored, glowing strip, and when they were riding alongside each other, voices screaming into the earpieces, both cars flying down the road and the finish line looming tantalizingly away, Rachel jerked the steering wheel hard to the left.

What happened next occurred in only a matter of seconds; Rachel's Volkswagen slammed into the side of Puck's truck so _hard_ that he and his ride both unexpectedly shattered into hundreds of glittering coins—must've been the position of their cars and the timing of the finish, but was still a derisive victory—peppering Rachel's windshield with hard pieces of currency, and Rachel managed to zoom straight through the finish line, donuting to a heart-stopping, tires squealing stop, nearly flailing out of her seat.

Lucky for seatbelts, she thought grimly, but in relief. She _won_.

Her thoughts were interrupted as her door was yanked open, her seatbelt detached, and was hauled unceremoniously out of the driver's seat and pulled into a ferocious, hungry kiss by her ecstatic girlfriend, who moved away when Rachel needed to catch her breath, who smiled dizzily. Quinn's eyes burned with pride, awe, and maybe a little desire as the others hurried over, clapping enthusiastically and congratulating her. Rachel grinned exhaustedly, wiping a shaking hand across her clammy forehead.

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +1,000 POINTS, +25 HEALTH, AND A LEVEL UP. FANTASTIC!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S NEW RATING: **Smokin'**]**

"Look, Quinn," Rachel remarked happily. "I'm smokin'!"

"Yes, you are," Quinn agreed. "Hands down. _Way_ down," she added with a wink, and Rachel reddened.

"Good job, Berry," Puck grumbled petulantly, slamming his truck door closed and wandering over to the group, having reappeared unharmed by the starting line, wearily handing her a few dozen coins while Blaine and Kurt scampered to collect the rest for Rachel, who was too physically and emotionally tired to bother at the moment.

"Thank you, Noah."

"Oh, so it's Noah now? Not 'dickhead'?"

"Well, since I've beaten you, like I told you I would," Rachel countered bluntly, triumphant, "I no longer have the need to insult you in an episode of blind rage."

"Whatever," Puck muttered. "You've beaten the Second Evil Ex, five more to go, you'll lose anyway and probably die, blah, blah, blah..."

"Are you Noah Puckerman?" A voice asked. The group turned to find a scowling police officer.

"Who's asking?" Puck questioned rudely, but Santana elbowed him. "I mean, yes."

"Well, you owe a five hundred dollar fine for the vandalism you and your girlfriend caused, along with the rumor you started about the sewer break," the officer snapped.

"What?" Puck yelled. "No way!"

"Either that or back to juvie. Your choice."

"Fine, whatever, I'll pay it," Puck mumbled, and the officer cast a suspicious look at the glee club members before returning to his cruiser and driving off. Puck waited patiently until the man was gone to flip an obscene gesture in the general direction of the absent cop and to round on Rachel, who raised an eyebrow in question.

"You're so lucky you won. Otherwise, I wouldn't be paying this goddamn charity."

"It was your idea," Rachel pointed out. "I would've been fine playing it on a game console."

"Why didn't I think of that?" Puck groaned. "That sounds cheap...and safe..."

"Hopefully the next ex will be smarter than you," Rachel commented, taking Quinn's hand and calling over her shoulder, "and have more common sense."


	3. Secret of War Lies in Communications

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

* * *

"William!" Sue yelled, looking as if she wanted to tear out her own hair in absolute frustration. "This hobnob mingling in this school of patricians and plebeians will not stand! I'd sooner besmirch the excellence of the flawless Madonna than allow something like this to occur! Not again! Don't you understand the ramifications of such a travesty?"

**SUE SYLVESTER**

**CHEERLEADING COACH/NEWS ANCHOR/TYRANT**

**29 (?) YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Hard

Principal Figgins sighed, disinterested. Same story, different day, it seemed, with these two. Always finding something wrong with the other, teaching-wise or personally. He started to wonder if he could get away with firing Sue again. No, she'd simply find a new way to blackmail him. _That_ period of darkness and fear still gave him nightmares.

"I really don't know what's wrong this time," Mr. Schue shrugged, puzzled. "Ask them, not me."

"I think you're blowing this wildly out of proportion," Rachel argued. "It's not a controversial issue! Nothing _illegal_ happened! You just don't understand the situation."

"It's perfectly in proportion, Tinkerbell," Sue growled. "And it's definitely controversial, whatever you've been doing, and more than likely, illegal."

"I'll take that quip as a compliment. Tinkerbell is a beloved icon with a similar need, like my own, for applause," Rachel huffed haughtily. "So, thank you, Ms. Sylvester."

Sue pursed her lips, frustrated. Damn bothersome diva and her meddling ways. Damn glee club, invincible to destruction. Damn Will Schuester and his awful hair.

Mr. Schuester rubbed his eyes.

Figgins sighed again, thinking wistfully of the day when he could retire. No Schue...no Sue...no McKinley...ah, he could only hope.

Rachel crossed her arms, brooding.

The boy next to her, sitting silent until now, cleared his throat, and four gazes swiveled to him expectantly. "I agree...with Rachel. It wasn't really a big deal—"

"That doesn't matter, nor do I care about your opinion," Sue snapped. "My Cheerios will not fraternize with the enemy again, do you hear me, Figgy?"

"Too late," Rachel coughed pointedly, feeling just brave enough to sneer. "Just ask your Head Cheerio..."

Sue glowered, pointing a finger at the diva threateningly and raising her voice. "Zip it, Star Jones. You infiltrated my squad like a rabid rat spreading the bubonic plague!"

Mr. Schue groaned. This was getting them nowhere. How did it even _start_?

* * *

**[THREE HOURS EARLIER]**

**

* * *

**

"All I'm saying is," Rachel explained, looking pleadingly at her audience, "is just to listen _harder_ for a clue. Anything. A slip of the tongue, an error, _something_. "

"Like what?" Mercedes wondered, bored, examining her nails. "A secret meeting place or something?"

"Misplaced schematics?" Kurt offered, stifling a yawn. Blaine doodled in a notebook, half paying attention to the conversation.

"Yes! Exactly. I need to know what they're planning next," her fellow diva nodded. "This war can be won, but there aren't any rules against playing dirty."

Tina raised her hand, albeit unnecessarily.

"Yes, Tina?"

"Mike won't say a thing about it, Rachel. Believe me, I know how to get information from him, and he's as quiet as the grave...well, quieter than usual. Sorry."

"Finn's been very careful at home, too," Kurt interjected. "He takes his phone with him everywhere."

"They'll expect you to do this," Blaine added wisely. "They know you'll do whatever it takes. That's why it's so difficult for you—they're trying as hard as you are to win."

Rachel sighed. "Is it so bad for them to accept that Quinn's happy with me? This League of Evil Exes is ridiculous. I'm not raising a white flag at all, but it's just annoying."

Silence fell over the assembled singers, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Hey," Quinn greeted suddenly, entering the choir room, kissing Rachel, and then turned to the rest of group curiously. "What are you all doing in here?"

"Discussing war," Blaine answered, smiling. "Top-secret affairs."

"We were simply planning out my future tactics," Rachel explained. "I need a few spies to shadow your remaining Evil Exes for the skinny on what they're planning next."

"Ah. Well, anyway, I came to tell you that I heard your name being called in the hallway a little while ago," the blonde informed her girlfriend. "It sounded suspicious."

Rachel's eyes widened and she subsequently dashed out of the room, earning a grumble from Quinn, who followed, along with the other four, inquisitive.

They found Rachel standing in the middle of the crowed hallway in a stare down with none other than Artie Abrams, who was clothed in a certain general's costume, reminiscent of the late 1700's and early 1800's. The boy's usual style of nerdy sweaters and sweater vests were discarded in favor of a dark blue coat, a waistcoat, breeches, and clunky, leather shoes with a buckle on each one. A red sash was draped across his chest, and two yellow epaulettes on his shoulders. Badges and buttons decorated Artie's uniform, and he wore a black, bicorne hat. His right hand was placed on the sash, inexplicably giving away the character he was portraying—Napoleon Bonaparte.

"Rachel Berry, I am the third of Quinn Fabray's Seven Evil Exes," Artie announced proudly. "I have a challenge for you to complete in as well, and you will utimately fail."

"Oh dear Lord," Kurt mumbled. "It's _past_ Halloween."

"Nice costume, Artie," Mercedes grinned, offering him an congratulatory high-five, to which he accepted. Quinn smiled with Blaine at the sight.

"Thanks!"

"How are _you_ one of Quinn's exes?" Rachel questioned, confused. "You barely talk to each other."

"We had a moment during _Dream A Little Dream of Me,_" Artie declared stubbornly. "She patted my shoulder...and we're generally civil during practice, so yeah."

"And your clothes pertain to the trial," Tina guessed. Artie nodded at his ex-girlfriend—(his real one, not the friendly acquaintance)—and turned to look at Rachel again.

"Explain yourself," Rachel ordered, tapping her foot. "What's my challenge against you?"

"Madame, you must accompany me this way," Artie replied grandly, jerking his thumb in direction of the gym. "It has to be in there specifically."

"How long to you expect it to be?" Rachel asked, as she wheeled Artie down the hallway, the others following behind them. "I have an English test."

"I don't know. It could go on for hours," Artie answered apologetically. "Sorry."

"That's okay. You're the most considerate of the Evil Exes anyway," Rachel smiled, and Artie grinned. When they reached the gym, Rachel raised her eyebrows.

"No way," Quinn exclaimed disbelievingly.

Half of the gym, instead of displaying the shiny floors and painted lines, was covered with blue and green paper, organized into squares, like a checkerboard. Two raised platforms, a chair on one, faced the other, separated by the papered section of the gym floor. Standing obediently by the furthest one were members of the jazz band and a few AV geeks, and by the closest platform, doing the same, the silent, entire squad of the Cheerios. Artie handed Rachel one headset of two, and kept the other for himself. Upon closer inspection, Rachel noticed each and every one of the congregated crowd, all persons were wearing a tiny earpiece of their own, most hidden by hair or hats.

"What is this?" Rachel queried.

"Your third challenge against the League of Seven Evil Exes is a lifesize game of Stratego," Artie boasted, smirking slightly. "And as I said, you will fail."

"How did you manage to snag the Cheerios?" Quinn wondered doubtfully, as a few of them giggled.

"I managed to have the AV club do the homework for the Cheerios for an entire term, in return for all of my spare wheelchairs and spare floppy disks—they're building something, I have no idea—along with me paying for instrumental repairs for the jazz band," Artie sighed. "It's a costly operation, and I haven't even explained the specifics yet. That's just the simplified version. In any case, the rest of the League, especially the seventh ex, will help pay off the debt...and now I have a headache."

"Who's the seventh ex?" Rachel asked swiftly. "He must be extremely influential to oversee these proceedings."

Quinn looked suddenly embarrassed while Artie kept his trademark composure, simply adjusting his bicorne hat and eyeing Rachel dubiously.

"If you manage to defeat myself and the three exes after me, you'll find out his identity, which I don't think you'll be able to do, in all truthfulness."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Rachel yelled, garnering a few glances between Cheerios and jazz members alike. "I beat Mike, I beat Noah, I can beat you!"

"To rile you up," Artie answered simply. "An aggravated enemy is an easily distracted one."

Rachel's expression shifted into icy anger at his reply. "I don't like to repeat myself, Artie Abrams," she glowered, striding over to her platform, clambering to the top, and sitting in the chair. "I will defeat you, whatever it takes. I'll have you know, I've been practicing online strategy games for at least a week now. Prepare to lose miserably."

"She's as scary as Quinn," Brittany mumbled to another Cheerio, who nodded in agreement.

"They're perfect for each other," a third girl muttered, impressed. "Crazy-driven and ruthless until the very end."

The Cheerios hastened to their spots, and only then did Rachel notice the posters attached to their backs, with names ranging from BOMB to MAJOR to LIEUTENANT.

Brittany's ID had the coveted red flag on it, and with ordered instructions in their ears, the Cheerios arranged themselves in a different order, hiding any clues of their setup. Artie, already sitting in his wheelchair on his own platform and looking slightly intimidating in his costume, was organizing his soldiers into another sequence, frowning.

"Ready?" Rachel called impatiently, as bystanders, along with several members of the glee club, and Quinn, sat down on the bleachers to watch the match in silence.

"I have to ask you that," Artie snapped. "Now, are you ready?"

"I have been, that's why I said it."

"Great," Artie grumbled through clenched teeth. "I'll go first."

"Ladies first would be preferred," Rachel retorted loftily. "Chivalry might not be completely dead—"

"Fine, damn it, go woman."

**ARTIE ABRAMS**

**GEEK/GUITAR PLAYER/ACCOMPLISHED RAPPER**

**AGE: 16 AND EIGHT MONTHS**

**RATING: **Intelligent

Rachel's eyes narrowed, and speaking quietly into her headset, ordered her first move. A Cheerio on the far right—a SERGEANT—stepped forward.

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: ARTIE ABRAMS, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[CHALLENGE: STRATEGO]**

Artie commanded an AV geek to step forward, who did so. Rachel asked a Cheerio to do the same, and the sequence was repeated.

When the first confrontation occurred—between the keyboard player and a Cheerio in the middle of the pyramid—the outcome was...explosive, as usual.

The keyboarder had a BOMB (6) and the Cheerio was a MAJOR (7). The girl smirked and blew the boy a kiss as his form dissolved into coins, and reappeared on the sidelines.

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +20 COINS]**

"Nice," Rachel grinned. "Good job, Jennifer."

Jennifer pretended to brush dust off her shoulders, looking superior. The other cheerleaders muffled amused giggles as the jazz band and Artie scowled. Quinn smiled.

"Look at her," she pointed Rachel out to Mercedes, as the brunette whispered another mandate to the squad, "isn't she cute?"

"That's your little fetish, not mine," the diva replied, wrinkling her nose. Quinn huffed, and chose to ogle Rachel instead of berate her friend.

Artie muttered an instruction to a violinist, who clashed with a Cheerio, and the cheerleader shattered into a pile of coins, materializing on the bleachers with a scoff.

**[ARTIE ABRAMS RECEIVES +20 COINS]**

**[ARTIE ABRAMS RECEIVES +20 COINS]**

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +20 COINS]**

Rachel's eyes narrowed as the game continued onward, and jazz band members/AV geeks and Cheerios alike were obliterated, racking up money for both herself and Artie.

She examined the board as Artie readjusted his styled uniform, waiting patiently for her next move. His soldiers, organized in a confusing mass of different ranks, seemed to be centered around Artie's left side. Three bombs were stationed there, and once, a major. The flag could be entrenched in the furthest corner, or closer. Rachel paused, thinking it over. Wouldn't that be obvious? Place the flag in a mass of highly scored players? Wouldn't it make more sense to draw her to the opposite side...the right? Maybe Artie knew she'd figure it out and attack the right, because the left would be too obvious to ignore. But _that_ idea sounded too simple. What if was actually on the left, in a sense of reverse psychology? Artie did brag that she wouldn't win. She just had to think out of the box. She decided to attack the middle instead, and then the left.

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +40 COINS]**

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +40 COINS]**

Artie grimaced. He would not let her win! It was his civic duty as an Ex to destroy Rachel by any means necessary, and keep Quinn alone for as long as possible.

Finn's gaze on him from the bleachers interrupted his train of thought—Artie sent him a nod, as if to say, _I've got this._

Whispering to his friend who played the drums—Leo—and instructing him to step ahead. Leo needed to find the marshal, the highest player on Rachel's board.

He studied the obediently complacent Cheerios, debating the identity of the marshal. If Leo, the spy, could find the marshal, he would undoubtedly find the flag.

Santana Lopez was frowning at the ceiling, obviously counting down the minutes until this challenge was over, and smirked. Santana was the second in command on Quinn's team. If anyone knew Santana was playing a game like this, they'd realize Santana would want to be unbeatable, the strongest piece on Rachel's side. Ergo, she'd be the marshal, and Leo, the spy, was the only player able to defeat her. After more maneuvering and shuffling around of players from both the third Ex and the diva, Leo had reached Santana, who promptly grimaced and exploded into coins, much to Rachel's annoyance. Santana plopped down from nonexistence on Quinn's left, swearing.

"Dickhead."

**[ARTIE ABRAMS RECEIVES +100 COINS]**

"That's right," Santana grumbled. "I'm totally worth all that."

"Shh, San, I'm trying to watch," Quinn waved her hand distractedly, and Santana rolled her eyes.

Artie (and by extension, Leo) was highly pleased, and quietly golf-clapped for himself, making sure his bicorne hat did not fall off.

"Pig," Rachel muttered indignantly. Ordering a Cheerio forward, a jazz member suddenly disintegrated, earning money for Rachel and a growl from Artie.

Seeing her prediction was happening perfectly, she reorganized her remaining players to attack Artie's left flank of soldiers, the Cheerios sneering in triumph.

The game progressed on sluggishly, passing the hour mark, then two, until both armies had about seven soldiers each, and were scattered across the board.

Rachel's primary player, the flag (Brittany), was safely near the back, having moved around several times to avoid suspicion.

The furthest soldier she had—a COLONEL—was close to a cluster of bombs, but Rachel urged her to step sideways, and instead of going left, chose for the girl to go right.

Artie's jaw dropped as Rachel's Cheerio player finally located the flag, having deciphered his moves—left, make Rachel think right, then left, but actually, it was on the right.

The jazz member shrugged, and exploded into coins, followed by his counterparts, and finally, Artie himself.

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +2,000 POINTS, +50 HEALTH, AND TWO LEVELS UP. GOOD JOB!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S NEW RATING: **Exceptional**]**

Rachel jumped up from her seat, clapping excitedly as the Cheerios, caught up in the moment of victory, applauded and whooped happily. Quinn grinned, and whistled.

Finn, Artie, Puck, and Sam scowled.

A silence fell over the gym, and Rachel stopped Quinn from approaching, pointing to the door. Quinn's eyes followed Sue Sylvester's form, staring at the Cheerios, furious.

"What are you doing?" She demanded.

"Stratego," Brittany announced, cheery. "I was the flag!"

"Who's idea was it?" Sue snapped. Santana crossed her arms.

The jazz band pointed to Artie, and the Cheerios pointed to Rachel, who stomped her foot.

"You two to Figgins!" Sue ordered angrily. "Now!"

* * *

"...therefore, I have stopped three of the Seven Evil Exes," Rachel explained to an exasperated Mr. Schue, a curious Figgins, and an aggravated Sue Sylvester.

Artie nodded, having accepted his defeat with some dignity.

"What's with the getup, Wheels?" Sue questioned. "Trying to look like even more of a loser?"

"Sue," Figgins protested.

"I was inspired by Napoleon Bonaparte," Artie clarified. "His war strategies were brilliant."

"And yet you failed, just like Waterloo," Rachel remarked smugly.

"Okay," Mr. Schue interjected impatiently. "This is over. Rachel hasn't done anything wrong. Neither has Artie. It's a competition for Quinn. End of story. Can we go?"

"I would be condoning violence," Figgins murmured weakly. "This isn't allowed..."

"Condone it," Sue acquiesced. "From what it sounds like, Elphaba is planning to be killed anyway by this little League. Let her."

"You too?" Rachel yelled. "Does no one believe in me? Quinn is my only supporter! What is wrong with you people?"

Whirling around from her seat, she executed yet another diva storm-out.

"Well," Figgins mumbled, "let's hope she doesn't do something drastic."

* * *

"I can't stand this," Rachel growled, pacing in a circle around the chair in Rachel's room as the blonde watched on, amused. "No one wants me to win. It's humiliating."

"I want you to win," Quinn wheedled, trailing a hand along Rachel's arm. "_Really._"

"I will."

"Good. Look at the bright side—you know two of the four left; Finn and Sam."

"I'm hoping their challenge will be brainless and easy," Rachel admitted. "They aren't known for their wit."

"It probably will be, knowing them. Maybe it'll have to do with football—they're both on the team. That's all I can think of," Quinn guessed.

"I need to do more research," Rachel muttered. "Stupid boys."

"Can't you wait a little while?" Quinn murmured. "You don't have any homework to do."

"No," Rachel sighed.

"You definitely aced your English test."

"I did," Rachel agreed.

"I'm here, alone, with you, in your empty house, and your dads are out," Quinn continued, pulling Rachel in the direction of the bed. "And you have all night to research."

"Quinn—"

"Come on," Quinn grumbled. "The challenges keep distracting you. I was this _close__. _At least let me get a little somethin' somethin' before you start researching again."

"I was just suggesting that you shut the door," Rachel grinned.

"Oh. Okay," Quinn smirked, and did so, before hurrying back. "Where were we?"

* * *

**Sorry for the delay!**


	4. No Winners, Only Survivors

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

**I'm lacking a bit of inspiration to write "Four" or "In the Shadows" so I decided to type out another chapter of this. Enjoy!**

_

* * *

_

"Hey," Quinn warned. "I don't think this is a good idea...at all."

Downing her second Red Bull of the day, a scowl lifted Rachel's lips, and she affixed a glare on her girlfriend. "I need it to stay awake, which is partially _your_ fault."

"Why didn't you sleep when you had the chance?"

"I. Was. Researching. My. Plan. Of. Attack."

"And you couldn't do that in the AM?" Quinn retorted. "And resorting to energy drinks? This isn't you, Rachel."

"Quinn," Rachel began, patience slipping quicker than several Cadbury Eggs in the clutches of Lauren Zizes, "in case you've forgotten, which, I know you haven't, I must be on the top of my game constantly. Any moment, I could be abducted from my classroom or challenged to a duel by your jealous Evil Exes. As we are both well aware, all of your ex-boyfriends and their trials have been not only spontaneous and unexpected, but all three boys so far have been extremely rude. Therefore, assisted by the somewhat questionable effects of Red Bull, I retain my obtained knowledge from last night's studying and maintain my usual zest which has been curbed by lack of sleep."

"If we weren't dating, I would've mocked you for rambling again."

"To reiterate, Red Bull and the effects keep me focused on the campaign to _keep_ us dating."

Quinn sighed.

"Trouble in paradise?" Santana interrupted airily, dropping her tray on the table and sitting down with Brittany in tow.

"No," Quinn snapped, but the Latina was undeterred.

"Berry finally calling it quits? Too tired to keep going?"

"Actually, no," Rachel interjected irritably, trying to open the cap of her third Red Bull until Brittany helped her. "I'm ready for anything and everything."

Rachel pointedly gulped the concoction down and placed it on the table, licking her lips, and ignored Quinn's frown of disapproval.

"All that sugar..." Santana trailed off, close to laughter. "You're going to crash hard."

"You sound particularly irked about my relationship with Quinn, especially today," Rachel observed quickly. "Why?"

"Entertainment," was the only reply. Brittany frowned.

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Is there another challenge?"

"I don't—Brittany, let's go," Santana growled, and a dutiful Brittany followed the angry Latina from the cafeteria, earning a hurried laugh from Rachel.

"I caught her," she gloated. "There has to be _something_ going on today."

Quinn laughed quietly.

"I see that Red Bull is finally kicking in," the blonde assessed, eyeing Rachel's brighter eyes and excited smile. "God help my Exes."

* * *

"It's scary," Kurt muttered. Mercedes nodded.

"She's defending her relationship," Blaine countered. "I think it's romantic."

"More like psycho," Kurt exclaimed, pointing. "Look at her, Blaine. _Look._"

Following Kurt's line of vision, Blaine couldn't help but grin at the sight of Rachel, scribbling frenziedly on a pad of graph paper, a bored Quinn at her side. Rachel alternated between practically writing the next book of War, throwing glances at the door, and murmuring something to Quinn, who in turn, played with Rachel's hair, disinterested.

"She's been like this all day," Mercedes agreed.

"She needs the support," Blaine urged. "You two don't want Quinn to be upset, do you? Or Rachel?"

Remembering different instances of both Quinn and Rachel's equally terrifying wraths, Kurt and Mercedes grumbled defeatedly but nodded.

"We still need to eavesdrop on Finn, like Rachel asked," Kurt decided. "He was planning a game of Call of Duty tonight with Sam and Puck."

"I don't think we have time for that," Mercedes returned, looking to the door of the choir room. "Check that out."

Rachel, already rising from her seat, was also eyeing the two boys entering glee practice, a cold expression on her face.

Quinn raised an eyebrow, as a few other glee members stared skeptically at the two jocks, wearing impeccable suits, looking more like businessmen than football players.

"Phineas, Samuel," the brunette greeted icily. "Salutations."

"It's Finn," Finn shot back.

"No, your mother told me your full name is Phineas," Rachel snapped. "Obviously, to convey the seriousness of the situation, I must address you by your full name—"

"Hey, hey," Sam interrupted, holding his hands up and standing between a triumphant Rachel and a fuming Finn, "we aren't here to argue."

"Why are you dressed like that?" Mr. Schuester questioned from his seat, exasperated. "Is this that League thing again?"

"Mr. Schue," Tina advised, "I wouldn't make fun of it. It's serious stuff."

"Yes, please, Mr. Schuester," Rachel added, glaring at him. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't offer your superfluous opinion, for once."

For the first time, the glee director couldn't string two condescending words together. Quinn silently counted it as a rare, coveted miracle.

"Anyway," Sam declared into an awkward, uncomfortable silence, "Rachel Berry, Finn and I are the fourth and fifth Evil Exes of Quinn Fabray. We have a challenge for you."

"She dated both of us at the same time," Finn remarked unnecessarily. Quinn shrugged.

"Bring it!" Rachel exclaimed, slightly overeager. "I'm ready."

"Follow us," Finn ordered, and glanced at the rest of the amused assembly, "you guys too."

* * *

"Sit," Sam instructed.

Rachel lowered into a raised chair on the auditorium stage, as her two opponents sat opposite her. A digital screen, placed in front of the brunette, glowed to life.

The rest of the club settled into seats in the front row, and Quinn gave Rachel an encouraging smile, and the brunette managed to nervously return it.

From the middle of the stage, close to the curtain, Artie pressed PLAY on the boombox on his lap, and a familiar tune drifted from the speakers.

"Seriously?" Rachel yelped.

"You've just been entered into a round of _Who Wants To Be Quinn Fabray's Chosen Suitor,_" Finn announced.

**FINN HUDSON**

**MALE LEAD/QUARTERBACK/PARTTIME JERK**

**17 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Dim

Another set of letters floated into being beside the blonde jock.

**SAM EVANS**

**SECOND STRING QUARTERBACK/SECRET NERD**

**17 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Sweet

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: FINN HUDSON/SAM EVANS, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[CHALLENGE: GAME SHOW]**

"Well," Sam declared, clapping his hands together, "let's begin."

The music sounding from Artie's boombox emitted a series of ominous drums, and the spotlights circled before stilling dramatically over Rachel.

"Well, didn't they go all out," Santana muttered.

"I'm shocked," Mercedes agreed. "Imagine if they did their homework with this much effort."

"First question," Finn frowned, scrutinizing Rachel closely, "what is Quinn's favorite flower?"

"Tulips," Rachel answered without hesitation. "Duh."

"Correct," Sam muttered, as Rachel's screen displayed earning ten coins. "Next..."

"What is Quinn's favorite color?"

"Yellow," Rachel replied, gaining twenty coins this time. "Are the questions actually going to increase in difficulty? Because I'm not really seeing the challenge—"

Quinn's snicker interrupted Finn's retort of annoyance, as muffled giggles echoed in the auditorium. Both jocks shifted uneasily.

"How old was Quinn when she first met me?" Finn demanded suddenly, smirking at Rachel's glower.

"Six," the brunette snapped. "Kindergarden."

Her answer was yet again, correct, and her total racked up to sixty coins in total. Quinn beamed.

"What did she name the Celibacy Club?"

"Christ Crusaders," Rachel replied easily, recalling Finn's nervous answer of 'sounds great' when the blonde commanded his presence last year. "That's obvious."

"Please don't comment on the questions, Rachel," Sam sighed. "It's only part of the test."

"What is her username on Myspace?" Finn inquired, straightening his tie. "You probably don't know. Want to use a Lifeline?"

"It's 'SkySplitz' and yes, I _would_ know, she used to comment on my videos," Rachel huffed. "And I get Lifelines?"

"Yes, we had to give them to you," Sam rolled his eyes. "Phone a Friend, Fifty-Fifty..."

"Next question," Finn called loudly. "Why did Quinn yell at you during the Celibacy Club meeting?"

"Because I mentioned contraception," Rachel answered loftily, as more money counted itself in her favor on the screen. "Honestly, I'm getting a little bored, you two."

Finn grimaced.

Sam frowned.

Artie turned off the boombox, sensing defeat, and wheeled behind the stage, down the ramp, and through the side doors, settling in the aisle near the others.

"Be truthful," Rachel ordered, crossing her arms over her chest expectantly, "do the questions really get any harder than this?"

"No," Sam admitted. "The next one was asking if you knew the name and gender of Quinn's baby..."

Quinn scowled and Puck glared mutinously at Finn, who ducked his head in embarrassment.

"And did Finn write them, thinking I couldn't possibly remember everything there is to know about Quinn?"

"Yes."

"Maybe we should skip to your part of the challenge, Sam," Rachel suggested. "I can see this becoming even more humiliating for Finn that is already is."

"Too late," Santana hollered, sneering. "Finnocence can't keep up."

"Shut up, Santana," Finn mumbled. "I couldn't think of anything else."

"It was a valiant effort, Finn, although misguided," Rachel offered bracingly. "This further cements the idea that I am the best out of all of you for Quinn's attention."

"True," Quinn agreed.

"He's gonna be really pissed," Puck called. "Just letting you know."

"Who is?" Rachel demanded when Finn paled. "The Seventh Evil Ex?"

"Ignore that," Sam interjected calmly, tucking his index cards of questions in his suit pocket and gesturing to the doors. "Let's go to the second phase of your challenge."

* * *

"Here," Sam offered, handing Rachel a red uniform, a pair of cleats, a helmet, and a pile of football pads. "You'll need this."

"Excuse me?" The brunette squeaked. "I—"

"Don't tell me you're backing out, Rachel," Sam grinned tauntingly, and Rachel shot him a withering glare.

"No."

"Great. Head off to your locker room, change, and meet us outside on the field," Sam ordered, and disappeared down the hallway, Finn following after him.

"I can't wait until you wear that," Quinn murmured when the corridor was empty, an enticing gleam in her gaze. "_Can't_ wait."

The blonde kept walking, leveling a lustful stare over her shoulder, and Rachel grinned brightly, hurrying into the locker room without further consideration.

Rachel dressed quickly, pulling her hair into braids and painting an eyeblack strip on each side of her nose. Tying the laces tighter on her cleats, she examined her reflection in the dusty mirror, and grabbed her helmet, exiting the room and heading outside to the football field, where the entire population of McKinley High, teachers, parents and all, were gathered in the stands. The sky was already dark, since practice and the other challenge stretching well past the afternoon. The diva swallowed her anxiety.

Rachel loped to the midfield line, met up with the two quarterbacks in a circle, accompanied by a silent referee, who held a coin in his hand, ready to flip it.

"What do I need to do?" Rachel asked.

"Win a football game," Sam laughed, and pointed to her side of the field. "We gave you our second string guys, and a few volunteers."

Rachel turned around, and saw several barely recognizable boys—Strando, Azimio—along with Lauren Zizes, Brett, and a few glee kids; Mercedes, Tina, and Kurt.

"And I'm assuming your team has the best players," the diva observed flatly. "Typical."

Sam shrugged. "The League doesn't _not_ condone playing fair."

"So, you've given me a team guaranteed to lose, miserably," Rachel continued, annoyed. "I'll have to back off and either of you will try to get Quinn back unopposed."

"Yup," Finn quipped, pulling his helmet on with derisive snigger. "Sorry."

Instead of answering her aggravating ex-boyfriend and yet another devious, ingenious plan forming in her mind, Rachel turned in the referee. "Flip the coin. Heads."

The referee complied, and when the coin was settled motionless in his outstretched palm, her team was granted the choice, much to Finn's disappointment.

"I'll say," Rachel paused, sneaking another glance at her team, "that we'll defend first. Right goal, and we'll kick off for the second half."

If surprised by her knowledge, the ref didn't comment, but simply nodded, striding to retrieve the football from the sideline. Rachel turned back to Sam and Finn.

"May the best suitor win," Rachel offered amicably, polite as ever.

"May the best _man_ win," Finn corrected, Sam nodding at his side. Rachel sighed at male pride—something she'd never understand—and walked to her disgruntled team.

"You picked the wrong choice," Azimio grumbled, cursing. "Now we'll be mowed down effortlessly by all those guys."

"Quiet," Rachel snapped, to his shock, and motioned for the group to bend down into a huddle. "I have a few deals to make."

"We've already been bribed to lose," Strando admitted, scratching his ear. "But we're supposed to make it look normal. I just wanted you to know."

"I guessed something of that nature," Rachel acquiesced. "But I have better offers for everyone to consider."

"Like what?" Azimio asked curiously. "I'm up for some negotiation."

"Anything better than losing to those jerks," a linebacker added, shaking his head. "All they did threaten our spots on the team."

Rachel nodded, eyeing the opposing team, the cheering stands, and the chanting cheerleaders, one blonde in particular, as she organized her thoughts.

"Football guys...I'll let you do the following: slushie me twice a day for a week, watch Quinn and I kiss for three minutes, and I'll do your Algebra homework for a term."

Azimio exchanged gleeful, awestruck looks with the other boys. "Deal. You drive a hard bargain, Berry, but we accept. Gladly."

Rachel turned to Brett. "Hey, you. Pothead. I'll buy you two pounds from Mr. Ryerson tomorrow."

"Deal," Brett wheezed. "I'm low on my weed stash anyway."

The brunette turned to Lauren Zizes. "Lauren, I'm fully prepared to buy two cartons of Cadbury Eggs online."

"Sold," Lauren agreed.

Lastly, Rachel faced her remaining three players—Mercedes, Kurt, and Tina. "I'll spend my allowance on a complete spa day for each of you."

"Deal," Kurt and Mercedes chimed together, as Tina nodded.

Rachel pulled her helmet down, and fixed her mouthguard into place, baring her teeth. "Okay, guys. Ready?"

Her team burst into agreeable roars, silly grins on their eyeblacked faces. Rachel couldn't help but smile in response—they weren't fantastic, weren't the best ones, but they were the underdogs, just like her. Quinn was way out of her league, but so was this game. Bribes and pride would be just as valuable as a meaty line of scrimmage. Finn and Sam's treachery could be defeated, only two more obstacles to destroy. League of Evil Exes or not, Rachel Berry wouldn't give up, questionable circumstances or not.

"Let's kick some ass!"

* * *

It began with the shrill, screeching cry of the whistle as the crowd started to cheer louder in anticipation.

**[MULTIPLAYER MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: FINN HUDSON/SAM EVANS/TEAM, RACHEL BERRY/TEAM]**

**[CHALLENGE: GRIDIRON GAME]**

The football sailed through the air, almost majestically, and someone on her team caught it, sprinting furiously forward, the ball tucked tightly into his wide chest.

He made it about ten yards before being tackled by four of Sam's boys, dressed in black in opposition to her crimson color.

The referee signaled for the lineup, and Rachel was pushed into the quarterback's spot, and heard the infuriating noise of Finn's amused laughter. At _her._ Asshole!

"Hike," she shouted, and managed to grab the ball, scrabble around for about three yards, before being smacked to the ground by a heavy body.

"_Hola,_ short stuff," Karofsky jeered delightedly, patting her on the helmet and lumbering off her. "I'd love to _tackle _you again sometime."

"Fuck," Rachel muttered, aghast at the pain already forming in her abdomen, as Puck's worried face appeared in her line of vision.

"Berry," he exclaimed, "are you all right? It's totally okay if you stop now, Quinn's freaking out, this shit isn't cool—"

"I'm fine, Noah," Rachel grumbled, and hauled herself to her feet. "Thank you for your concern."

The crowd gave her supportive whoops and claps, and Rachel shuffled to the line, while the referee yelled about a second down. Great.

"You okay, Berry?" Lauren Zizes grunted. "Not quitting yet, are you?"

"Fine, thanks. And no, I'm not."

"Good," the wrestler hissed at the boy crouching opposite her, "I'm ready to bring the _pain._"

The lines shifted, getting ready, and Rachel ordered a few plays to her team—most of them, like Brett or Mercedes, pay no attention—and held her hands out.

"Hike!"

* * *

Halftime arrived in a wretched affair, and Rachel's team was already losing, twelve points to zero by Finn's maneuvering, and were huddled in the girl's locker room, fuming.

"I can't believe this," Azimio yelled. "They're kicking _our _butts. This fucking blows."

"You know we're going to lose," Strando added sympathetically to Rachel, "even if we try."

"Not with that attitude," Kurt interjected. "You're giving up."

"Haven't you noticed, Lady?" Azimio barked. "They've got Hudson and Evans—the fucking quarterbacks—Puckerman, Dave, and our best players. We. Are. Going. To. Lose."

"I want my money back," Brett rasped suddenly. "I didn't buy those damn cows to give me orange juice."

A silence.

"Is he still high?" Tina whispered.

"Yes. I would know. I still with him in English every day," Kurt grumbled. "I've seen him light it, chew it, drink it in tea—"

"I'm still going through with those deals," Rachel announced curtly. "Regardless if we win or lose, you will all be paid accordingly...well, not the Quinn part, unfortunately."

"Thanks, I guess," Azimio muttered. "But I'm still betting that we lose. Sorry, Berry."

"Don't put all your money down yet," a voice declared, and all heads snapped to Coach Beiste, Mr. Schuester, and Blaine, appearing in the locker room. "You can take 'em."

"Coach, we suck ass," Azimio complained. "My grandma can play better ball than these losers. It's halftime, we're down twelve points that will take forever to get—"

"Adams, shut up," Beiste remarked dismissively. "Take a seat."

Azimio plopped down on a bench, sulking, and the brooding group of players looked to the Coach, while Mr. Schue and Blaine stood off the side.

"He's right; you all suck," Beiste commented flatly. "That doesn't mean you throw in the towel, however."

"Why not, Coach?" Rachel asked, moping. "They planned for me to lose the game and Quinn. I can't win against them in their own ballpark."

"Rachel, for how long I've known you, you didn't strike me as someone who gives up," Beiste countered, and Rachel lowered her gaze to the floor. "I'm going to help you."

"How?" Strando inquired. "It's like the Red Sox and the Yankees out there."

"And didn't they win in '04?" Beiste replied, hands on her hips. "You guys can definitely do this."

"I don't think they'll let me receive outside help," Rachel offered. "But you could give me a few ideas. Some plays Azimio and Strando can do."

"Okay," Beiste agreed. "Finn's probably counting on you dropping the snap again. He'll try to scare you. Luckily, he didn't see us come in here, so I've got some solutions..."

* * *

"I really wish we could do _Single Ladies,_" Kurt mumbled. "It seems easier. Less at stake."

"At stake?" Rachel repeated, tightening the straps on her helmet. "You want _me _to win?"

"Of course," Kurt exclaimed. "As a fellow diva, and a hater of Finn and Sam's growing arrogance, I want you and Quinn to be happy, which is ironically with each other."

"I just assumed because you're somewhat related to Finn—"

"A marriage doesn't form allegiances anymore," the boy cut in, sparing a glance at his father and Carole in the stands, "sometimes friendship is thicker than pseudo-blood."

"Thank you, Kurt," Rachel beamed.

"No, no, thank _you._ I'm getting a spa day out of this. And our continued diva friendship," Kurt winked. "It's far better than fighting, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"Great. Now, let's get a move on, quarterback. We've got a game to win."

From the group of Cheerios, Quinn eyed the pair before being hoisted into the air at the top of the pyramid, all the girls surreptitiously on Rachel's side, not Finn or Sam's.

Rachel scurried to the line, and saw Karofsky send her a leer, waggling his eyebrows. The brunette ignored it, and looked around before crouching down in her position.

"12," Rachel called loudly, "18, 9...hike!"

Upon receiving the football, number 12 rushed to shadow her, 18 tackled a running back, and number 9 did the same, allowing her a straightaway to the end zone.

"Run!" Beiste roared from the sidelines. "Run, Rachel, run!"

"Run!" Quinn shouted. "Come on, Rachel!"

Rachel sprinted like she was on fire, dodging two burly boys and managing to be four yards—so close—before she was sacked, but the football remained in her grip.

The whistle succeeded the play, and Rachel clambered to her feet, exhaling deeply and rolling her shoulders, shaking off the numbness.

"You're ridiculously hot right now. I'm so turned on by your badassery," Puck declared as he walked past her. "Just letting you know."

"Thank you, Noah. I'll be hotter when I win."

"Yeah, you totally will. I'll tackle Finn for you, if you like."

"I'd rather win fairly, but I appreciate your consideration."

"No problem," Puck grinned. "I heard about your deal with Adams. Can I see?"

"You know what?" Rachel exclaimed, slightly tiredly. "Sure. You can watch with the other boys. Whatever. Finn, Sam, and Karofsky can't, however."

"Got it," Puck snickered. "I'll knee 'em where the sun doesn't shine, and that sends 'em straight the nurse. Then I can see you play tonsil hockey with Quinn. Hot."

"You're deplorable, Noah," she called as she settled into her quarterback spot behind the line of scrimmage.

"Proud of it, babe!"

Rachel placed her mouthguard back on, and met Tina's eye, who nodded heavily, helmet wagging, ready to run into the end zone.

The whistle blew shrilly, and Rachel bellowed: "Hike!"

The football landed firmly in her hands, and as the line of scrimmage struggled and fought, and players scrambled to get to her, Rachel threw the ball with all of her might into the end zone. The ball soared four yards in the air, and landed inexplicably in a wide open Tina's arms, who looked shell-shocked but held on, cradling it protectively to her chest. The crowd exploded to shouts and cries of uproarious approval, and Rachel's grin nearly split her face as the referee signaled _it's good. _Rachel jumped excitedly.

The score flashed, changing from 0-12 to 6-12. Her heart thumped in her ribcage. They weren't done, but they weren't losing miserably. It was a start. A glimmer of hope.

Finn's anger as he clutched his fists together, along with Sam's grimace, made the goal feel even better.

She and Kurt headed to the kickoff line, as Kurt placed a small iPod dock on the grass. Rachel already knew the song—who didn't?—and couldn't help but grin delightedly.

"I believe in you, Kurt," she whispered.

"Thanks," he murmured back.

Her fingertips reached out into the tense silence, and pressed PLAY. Beyonce's _Single Ladies _blared, and Kurt did his dance, giggling all the way at the absurdity of it.

The whistle sounded piercingly as Kurt finished, and the suddenly loud noise of his foot, hitting the ball, echoed powerfully in the stadium.

The football sailed effortlessly between the goal posts, smacking against the ground and rolling further away on the grass.

The referee signaled the field goal to pass. Cheers erupted and Rachel yanked Kurt into a hug, and loud roars of "that's my boy" were well known to be from Burt Hummel.

Kurt looked close to tears as the score changed again to 7-12.

"You did it again," Rachel yelled, both of them jumping happily up and down. "Good job!"

"Blaine looks shocked," Kurt laughed. "He can't believe his eyes!"

"He should be," Rachel grinned. "He's got the best boyfriend on the whole team."

"Rachel Berry's team, that is. You'll win this, I know you will," Kurt exclaimed, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Not Finn."

"Not Finn," Rachel agreed, her eyes finding Quinn's sparkling ones, "not him at all."

* * *

Calming the joy from Rachel's team was a difficult task. The referees finally managed to shuffle them in a defensive line, filing together on the line of scrimmage.

The half was nearing the end—they only had about six minutes to go left in the game, and Rachel's anxiety surfaced once more. Could they do this? Was it even possible?

Finn's yells as he glanced around were barely heard over the cacophony of the stands, and when the line broke, absolute mayhem occurred.

Lauren Zizes, with a roar like a ferocious lion, tackled the abashed quarterback before he could move, and gave him a hard slap to the helmet for good measure.

Second down, the referee gestured solemnly.

This time, Finn's pass wobbled in flight, missing the running back's waiting arms and skidding across the field.

Third down was the next signal as the screams from the stands became howls of reassurance and optimism, mostly for Rachel's team.

The clock read only two minutes to go, and Rachel's heart lurched.

Finn's aim was perfect this time, but as the football flew through the air, it was intercepted by, of all people, _Brett._

_"_Run!" Rachel bellowed. "Run, Brett!"

Frightened enough at the approaching football gorillas, Brett broke into a sprint, as members of Rachel's team tackled members of Finn and Sam's team, yelling nonsense.

The rules were disregarded as even the referees were whooping for Brett to go, and the running backs tried desperately and futilely to catch up.

Brett's tiny body was like a beacon of red as he tore across the field, high on both adrenaline and his stash of marijuana, baring his teeth in the effort.

Rachel's shouts of encouragement was lost among the clamor of the crowd, and Brett crossed the touchdown line and dove into the end zone, football safely in his hands.

"Touchdown!" Azimio roared. "Yes!"

The score changed—becoming 13-12, and Kurt's obligatory field goal earned them another point, making it a close but obvious victory of 14-12.

Finn's angry shouts and Sam's silent disappointment, along with the sulking team, disintegrated into hundreds of coins, before reappearing on the sidelines.

"I did it," Rachel squeaked. "I did it!"

"We did it, sweetie," Kurt amended, and helped hoist Rachel onto Strando's cheering shoulders. "Team effort."

"We did it!" Rachel yelled agreeably. "Suck on that, Hudson and Evans!"

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +5,000 POINTS, +100 HEALTH, AND FOUR LEVELS UP. PERFECT!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S NEW RATING: **Inspiring**]**

"She's so hot!" Puck was roaring. "I'd get that, no contest!"

"Hey, that's mine to get," Quinn shouted, and before Rachel knew it, she was off Strando's shoulders and tugged against Quinn, who didn't pause for breath and kissed her.

Raucous, appreciative cheers and applause exploded into air, but Rachel didn't pay it any mind—she was too busy making out with her girlfriend. Yeah, _hers_.

"Five down, two to go," Quinn breathed in her ear when she'd pulled away. "Ready?"

"Of course I'm ready," Rachel smiled. "I'm Rachel Berry. What d'you expect?"

She didn't really know how they accomplished it—good plays, spotty weather, crazy players, deals, three Red Bulls, Finn's anger, or maybe just a stroke of luck. Who knows?

What she did know, however, was who Quinn would be with that night. Oh yeah, she's _that_ awesome, and she was totally getting some.

Two Exes left—piece of cake, compared to what they've thrown her already. She'd be prepared...over-prepared, actually.

She's Rachel Berry; what d'you expect?

* * *

**Just a request of an honest opinion—would anyone object to me doing more _Glee_ fics based on movies? **

**I have something original lined up, but I have movies I really want to make into Faberry versions, but I don't want to look like I can't think of anything good, because I can, I'd just rather have fun with twisting movies around to my liking. If you readers wouldn't mind, could you send me a PM about it?**


	5. Battles Beyond Endurance

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

**Rachel and Quinn cuddles on Tumblr, oh my! Haters can hate, we're all happy in our Faberry bubble! Here's chapter five, second to last. Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

**A/N: There will be mild violence in this chapter, so everyone knows, and was researched throughly (I hope). Don't say I didn't warn you!**

* * *

"Something's off," Rachel muttered. "I know it."

"Do you have Spidey senses now?" Quinn wondered, toying with the hem of Rachel's shirt. "Another talent to add to your resumé?"

"The Exes haven't made a single move in a week," the brunette fretted, oblivious to Quinn's displeasure. "Seven days of no clues, no threats, no _suspicious_ activity—"

"—no attention besides after the football game and making out for the players," Quinn grumbled unhappily. "I'm so effing frustrated, for Christ's sake—"

"—and I haven't even considered _who _would be fighting me," Rachel continued, unwittingly making Quinn more irritable. "All of your ex-boyfriends have been eliminated."

Uncharacteristically and also unnoticed by her petite girlfriend, Quinn blushed. Ex-_boyfriends_, maybe...

"I won't disregard playground puppy love again. Mike is one example...Artie could be an instance of casual acquaintanceship, which also can't be ruled out either..."

"I'm sworn to secrecy," Quinn huffed. "All that theorizing has to be on your own, aside from the obvious ones. They sent me an email. I skimmed it, though."

"I know that already," Rachel retorted. "Why are you so snappy today?"

Quinn glared at her pointedly.

"Oh! Why didn't you say so?" Rachel trilled, and promptly dragged Quinn out of the building and in the direction of her car. "All you needed to do was ask me, Quinn!"

"I _did,_" Quinn mumbled before being unceremoniously shoved in the backseat. "A _bunch_ of times..."

* * *

"Happy?" Rachel snickered.

"Yup," Quinn grinned lazily, and narrowed her eyes suggestively at the songstress over her soda. "I'll be repaying you later."

"Oh, _will_ you?"

"Spare me," Santana interjected, appearing suddenly and sitting down uninvited at the lunch table the two were sharing, Brittany at her side. "I won't listen to that shit."

"I can," Brittany chimed in eagerly. "I don't mind. Really!"

"Brittany, have you been taking orders from Noah lately?"

"Yes! He told me to get all the dirty details about you guys. But you can tell me the clean ones too, Rach. I don't think he'll know the difference."

"He will, Britt," Santana disagreed. "He will."

"Worth a try, B," Puck commented as he strode by. "I'll buy you a duck toy tomorrow."

Brittany's gleeful exclamation and clapping hands were drowned out when Rachel called: "Still deplorable, Noah!"

"_Still_ proud of it, babe!"

"So, Berry," Santana declared when Puck was gone, a smirk lifting on her lips as a sudden blush darkened on Quinn's face, "how is your little campaign going?"

"Fine," Rachel answered, confused. "I know you saw my team and I obliterate the boys last week, so—"

"Are you sure you aren't _missing_ anyone?" The Latina prompted impatiently. "You must've."

"I don't think so," the diva shrugged. "I guess I could count Kurt as a friend, being that he used to be a frequent dance partner of Quinn's, and maybe Matt? I don't know."

Santana frowned, as Brittany tried not to smile. "Try harder, idiot."

"I am, Santana," Rachel protested. "I don't understand your hostility, although it's a common facet of your personality, but you could be suffering from a type of—"

"A type of _what_?"

"Well, I've read a few psychology texts, as you would say, 'for kicks', and you very well might be jealous of me, understandably, and that's why you constantly bully me—"

"I am not jealous of you!" Santana snapped, disgusted at the very thought. "Are you really that dense?"

"No," Rachel exclaimed indignantly. "I've always maintained a steady and excellent GPA of—"

"I don't care!" Santana growled over Quinn's laughter. "Shut up, both of you!"

Without waiting for further reply, the brunette Cheerio stormed away from the table and Brittany attempted to rearrange her expression from amused to remorseful.

"Go get her, Britt," Quinn advised meaningfully, widening her eyes. "_Help _her, if you know what I mean."

Brittany, for once, seemed to understand completely, and ambled obediently after her girlfriend, disappearing through the double doors of the cafeteria and out of sight.

"How would Brittany help Santana?" Rachel queried, bewildered. "Calm her down, you mean?"

"Uh, probably do it in the janitor's closet or something," Quinn lied nervously, blush returning to her cheeks. "Or something really nasty like that."

"That's repulsive, why on earth would you suggest that?" Rachel squawked. "Quinn Fabray, you should be ashamed of yourself. You're acting deplorable as Noah."

"I don't know why," Quinn offered bashfully, as if questioning her own stupidity. "Sorry, I'm actually...tired today. You know, morning blues and all."

"It's almost noon, Quinn," Rachel scoffed, still ignorant of the real issue. "You're a cheerleader! Be more cheery once and awhile, will you?"

"Right, totally," the blonde nodded, silently congratulating herself on the save. "I should do that."

* * *

"Quinn was acting very strange today," Rachel frowned. "Jumpy and on edge, I guess. That doesn't usually occur—she's always been very composed."

"Maybe she had an important test to take," Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell suggested hopefully. "She might get anxious sometimes. I actually have a pamphlet on it, if you—"

**EMMA PILLSBURY-HOWELL**

**GUIDANCE COUNSELOR/ONE TIME GLEE DIRECTOR**

**31 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Nervously neurotic

"No, no, that's not it," Rachel remarked dismissively, waving a lofty hand. "She looked _scared_ about something."

"Why don't you ask Quinn herself?"

"Because she'd probably ignore it."

"Why?" Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell wondered.

"Maybe she's lying to my face," Rachel gasped suddenly, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"Rachel, I don't—"

"Maybe she's been lying to me all along," Rachel fussed. "Maybe she's been cheating on me! Oh my God! She is! Quinn's cheating on me!"

"No!" Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell denied vehemently. "Don't jump to conclusions, Rachel. It doesn't end well, trust me."

"What am I supposed to think?" The brunette demanded. "The signs are all there!"

"You're acting too impulsively," the counselor urged patiently. "Explain in detail _how_ you think Quinn is cheating on you."

"She's been really nervous today," Rachel insisted. "And, she did that really cute thing where she says anything that comes to mind...like Brittany and Santana doing—"

"I'd prefer if you didn't mention _that_, it's inappropriate for me to—"

"—and she was blushing! Quinn's complexion rivals Kurt's in terms of paleness at all times. She would either be feverish or lying to me."

"I bet she's sick," Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell interrupted sagely. "Yes, that must be it."

"I should check on her," Rachel decided, completely diverted from her previous verdict. "Wait a minute! She was probably just fighting her sickness to spend time with me!"

"Probably," Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell fibbed lamely. "You are a presence to bask in."

"Thank you!" Rachel exclaimed. "Finally someone understands my sheer brilliance!"

The redheaded woman sitting opposite her resisted the urge to smack her own forehead at Rachel's blatant vanity.

"Well, I must be going! I need to prepare to nurse Quinn back to health by any means necessary! I should sing an anthem to lift her spirits!"

The diva departed with a cheery wave and a skip in her step, leaving Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell reaching for an aspirin. Yes, Rachel was certainly a presence, but _not_ to bask in.

* * *

"Have you seen Quinn?"

Brittany paused from admiring her reflection in the mirror on her locker door, and glanced down at Rachel.

What was the blonde supposed to remember? Something about a fight, soon. A fight, darn, what else? She knew this. Come on, brain, think, Brittany thought. Think!

"I've seen her, yeah."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know," Brittany answered slowly. What was she ordered to do by those Broken Up By Quinn Mean People's Club? She hated forgetting things.

She was _still _looking for that wheelchair. Maybe Charity hid it ages ago before she had the SUV?

"Was she in class today?" Rachel pressed impatiently.

"After lunchtime? Yeah."

Rachel sighed.

Brittany suddenly smiled triumphantly, recalling a snippet of the commands she'd been given. Yay!

"You should change into your gym clothes," the Cheerio suggested. "Quinn says you look hot when you wear them sometimes."

"Did she say 'sometimes Rachel's hot' as in not usually, or sometimes, she mentions I'm hot in casual conversation in powwows with you and Santana?" Rachel queried.

"There are so many words..." Brittany fretted at once. "I don't get it."

"Nevermind. I'll do what you suggest. Perhaps Quinn will be surprised," the brunette muttered, and left without another word.

"Surprised?" Brittany asked in helpless confusion when she was alone. "Is it Quinn's birthday today?"

* * *

As Rachel exited the locker room, straightening one of her spare slushie-attack outfits to pique Quinn's attention—nothing wrong with changing up their already fantastic relationship—a rumbling groan echoed around the gym, and the lights flickered once before extinguishing completely. Rachel froze, mid-step, and assumed a defensive pose.

"Who's there?" The brunette demanded loudly, trying to squint into the darkness, ponytail swinging as she glanced around uneasily. "I carry a rape-whistle!"

Quiet snickers in the distance faded as quickly as they appeared, and Rachel tightened her muscles, ready to spring into action and fight off unseen attackers.

"Show yourself," she ordered. "I am skilled in many different types of combat, you know! Karate, judo, kickboxing, taekwondo, and I can cage fight too!"

"I'd like to see that," a familiar voice drawled approvingly, and a single spotlight flicked on from the ceiling, filtering down onto a leering Noah Puckerman, dressed as a referee, yet standing at least four feet taller. As Rachel stared, silent and bewildered, two more spotlights crackled to life, illuminating a stage. No, not a stage, the diva realized. A square roped off by two colored wires on every side, surrounding Puck quite similar to a...Rachel almost groaned. A boxing ring, right in the middle of the gym.

She'd be _boxing_ as her next challenge. How barbaric, the diva internally grumbled.

"Doesn't this look dangerous," the brunette quipped, climbing past the cables and straightening up, as Puck chuckled darkly, twirling a hanging microphone in his hands.

"Dangerous, yeah, but totally smokin'," Puck countered with a smirk. "Hope you're ready, Rach."

"I can't face you again," Rachel pointed out unnecessarily. "I already kicked _your_ ass."

"That was freakin'—okay, fine. Whatever, you won. But you aren't facing _me_ today," Puck replied, "you'll be against the Sixth Evil Ex of Quinn Fabray."

"Well, where is he?" Rachel demanded.

Puck pulled the microphone to his lips, grinning, as more lights flashed, lighting up the entire gym and allowing a roar of cheers to explode unexpectedly, having been obediently silent until they were allowed to speak again. Huddled around the boxing ring was a large crowd, some placing bets, others laughing, and many jumping excitedly, eager to watch the fight. Cell phone cameras glittered and snapped in the mass of bodies, and Rachel spotted glee members here and there, most looking incredibly nervous.

Rachel didn't understand their anxiety—she was a superb fighter, since practicing upon joining the competition for Quinn's heart—until she saw her opponent.

Looking exactly like the cat who'd eaten the canary, and shadowboxing with gloved fists, was a smirking Santana Lopez.

"You!" Rachel screeched. "Pardon me, but what the actual _fuck_?"

Santana laughed—a nasty little one that sent shivers down Rachel's spine—as Quinn emerged from the mob, looking sheepish and very red in the face.

"Quinn, you...her? I don't—how did this—_when_? I'm so confused..."

"Um...sleepovers?" Quinn offered, mortified. Brittany, navigating through the crowd and materializing at her fellow blonde's side, beamed.

"I _loved_ those sleepovers," Brittany gushed. "Me and Quinn—"

"Britt!" Quinn squealed frantically, flapping her arms, as several football players close enough to hear, catcalled and whistled. "Shh!"

"—did a ton of stuff too but I wasn't allowed in the group," the taller blonde girl pouted sadly. "They said Santana was smarter and that I didn't deserve to join..."

"Someone explain this madness to me," Rachel lamented, lost. "I can't find words to articulate my confusion."

Santana looked torn between insulting Rachel and comforting Brittany, but couldn't decide quickly enough.

"Aww, Britt," Quinn mumbled, apologetic. "You should be in it, but Santana is, okay? You're still awesome—"

"Quinn Fabray!" Rachel interrupted, voice rising to a shriek. "Do _not_ finish that sentence!"

"Fine," Quinn acquiesced meekly, already embarrassed enough at the proceedings and new, appraising looks from the crowd and incredulous glee kids. "Sorry, Rachel."

"She really is," Brittany nodded. "But I like you guys together. It's cute. There can't be eight exes in a seven exes game anyway. That just sounds wrong."

"Wait!" Rachel yelped. "That's why you always said 'exes' instead of 'ex-boyfriends', didn't you?"

Quinn nodded guiltily.

"Let's get this show on the road," Puck interjected, voice booming into the mic, and shooed Rachel to her corner. Kurt waited for her with boxing gloves and a mouthguard.

"This is insanity," Rachel gulped, allowing Kurt to tug the red gloves on her hands and guide her to sit on her stool. "I can't do this. Santana will murder me."

"They're hoping for it," Kurt agreed, placing his hands on her shoulders. "But I'm pulling for you, sweets. Blaine, Mercedes, and Tina, too."

The aforementioned trio, standing nearby, smiled encouragingly and waved, all sharing a bucket of popcorn. Rachel turned back to Kurt, curious.

"Do any teachers know about this?"

Kurt shrugged. "Artie told us that Figgins and Sue don't care and Mr. Schuester can't really stop anything to save his life, so, you're good. The doors are locked."

"I just might have a heart attack," Rachel whimpered, eyeing Santana's quasi hits into the air, a concentrated expression on her features. "She's probably boxed forever."

"Probably, she does have brothers," Kurt nodded. "Maybe she didn't want to be left out."

"Kurt, if I die, you can have all of my Broadway memorabilia," the diva promised seriously. "But you have to mention me in your first acceptance speech as a dear friend."

"Deal," Kurt complied, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Enemy turned teammate turned dear friend, who could've, should've, would've been another timeless Broadway icon."

"I will be an icon," Rachel snapped at once, indignant. "You'll see!"

"Exactly. Meaning you _won't_ die," Kurt cajoled fiercely, squeezing her shoulder. "You can do this, Rachel. I know it. You've gotten this far, don't give up now."

Rachel paused, half-mollified and half-upset, and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You tricked me."

"I'm your personal cheerleader," Kurt smiled. "You know, besides the one you're dating."

"Kurt," Rachel beamed, "you're so sweet."

"I know. Blaine says it all the time."

"Hey, hey," Puck cut in, speaking over Rachel's amused bark of laughter and Kurt's snickers, "come on! We have a match to do!"

Rachel stiffened, anxious, but nodded, and stood up. Kurt patted her shoulder supportively and clambered to floor to watch with Quinn, Brittany, Tina, Mercedes, and Blaine, while the noise of the crowd surged loudly, impatiently. Rachel checked the tightness of her gloves, and carefully placed the mouthguard between her teeth, biting down.

"IN THIS CORNER,_" _Puck bellowed, doubling as referee and ring announcer, hand curled around the dangling microphone and addressing the assembly, "WEIGHING IN AT ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN POUNDS, REIGNING AS McKINLEY HIGH SCHOOL'S BIGGEST BITCH, AND THE SIXTH EVIL EX OF QUINN FABRAY, SANTANA...LOPEZ!"

**SANTANA LOPEZ**

**FORMER HEAD CHEERIO/GLEE CLUB MEMBER/BREADSTICKS ENTHUSIAST**

**17 YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Terrifying

Rachel gnawed nervously on her mouthguard as the crowd roared with enraptured approval, and Santana acknowledged them with a brief, cursory nod.

Puck switched his attention from the Latina when the noise died down, and pointed at Rachel, and yelled: "AND IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR POUNDS, FEMALE LEAD OF GLEE CLUB AND A LOT OF OTHER CLUBS, CURRENTLY DATING QUINN FABRAY, AND A SMOKING HOT JEW, RACHEL...BERRY!"

Rachel's applause was muted, but still present, mostly coming from the glee club and a few nicer Cheerios. Rachel offered a quick wave, and Quinn blew her a kiss.

"It's on, Yentl," Santana jeered. "I practically told you I was next at lunch today."

"The source of your hostility was not being recognized?" Rachel scoffed. "Talk about insecurity issues."

Santana halted from rushing forward too early under Puck's glare, and stepped backwards slightly. "I'm not insecure. I'm just annoyed at your stupidity. Freakin' oblivious."

"Let's get this over with," Rachel diverted. "You're wasting time."

"Yeah, because me and Britts are be headin' to Breadstix when I win," Santana grinned. "Dinner'll be on you, Berry. Cheers."

Rachel scowled, but ignored the jibe as best she could. Puck hunkered down, hands on his kneecaps to observe, and signaled the sideline operator.

The sideline operator, better known as Becky Jackson, was perched precariously on a chair. Lowering the mallet to the golden bell, the _ding_ indicated for the match to begin.

"Round One," she announced. "Fight!"

* * *

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: SANTANA LOPEZ, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[CHALLENGE: BOXING]**

**

* * *

**

Santana's first swing was like a sledgehammer, and clipped Rachel hard on the ear, sending the diva careening sideways and making the shorter brunette emit a cry of rage.

The swarm of students shrieked their praises as Quinn winced. This wasn't how she'd planned to tell Rachel about hooking up separately/simultaneously with Brittana.

"Santana Lopez! Why did you hit my ear?"

"No helmets, Berry!" Santana taunted. "I made sure! I can't wait to hit that stupid Jew nose."

"Not the nose! I need it for Broadway!" Rachel yelled indignantly, and sped forward, throwing a retaliatory punch in Santana's abdomen, earning a grunt.

**[GOOD!]**

"Bitch," Santana muttered.

Rachel held her hands in front of her face, guarding, as both girls kept in a tight circle, eyeing each other closely.

"Come on, ladies," Puck coaxed, earning eager shouts for action from the assembly. "We aren't having a sissy fight here!"

"Shut up, Puckerman!" Both brunettes snarled, and Santana shot ahead, tossing a swift uppercut into Rachel's stomach. Rachel batted away more attempts at it, huffing.

Rachel aimed a jab, feeling her glove smack unyieldingly against her opponent's cheek, and threw another into Santana's chin, who shoved her off, growling.

**[FAIR!]**

Santana hastened up into her adversary's space, landing several painful hooks on Rachel's already injured ear. Rachel ducked as quickly as she could, gritting her teeth.

_Ding, ding._

"End of Round One," Becky declared. "Hit the corners, girls!"

Rachel lumbered heavily over to her stool, where Kurt brushed a towel over her shoulders, and handed her a water bottle. "How's it going, Rachel?"

"We just started," she pointed out, handing him the bottle. "Too early to tell. She's angry, though, but that's normal. It's impossible to guess."

"Doesn't look too bad," Kurt observed, gently pressing an ice pack to Rachel's ear. "I don't think it'll affect your hearing."

"It better not," Rachel growled. "I'd slaughter her first."

"That's the idea," Kurt chuckled as the bell dinged again amidst the crowd's roars. "Get out there!"

"Round Two," Becky proclaimed, pompously regal. "Go!"

Santana started first, slinging jabs so furiously Rachel didn't had time between blocks to try anything. Darting backwards, Rachel managed to dodge a kidney punch, barely.

Rachel raced forward when Santana stopped to breathe, smashing punches into Santana's gut as the Latina tried to parry her off. The Latina swung a hard uppercut under Rachel's chin, and Rachel's endless volley of blows was abruptly ended when Santana knocked a stinging fist into her nose, just as the bell tolled for the end of Round Two.

"She smashed my nose," Rachel cried, snatching the ice pack from Kurt's waiting grip. "I could kill her!"

"You still have a few rounds to go," Kurt urged, dabbing a cold facecloth on her forehead. "Don't waste all of your energy yet."

"You're doing great, Rach," Quinn smiled, holding securely to the ropes. "Don't let this injury ruin everything. Try some verbal jabs too; Santana can't resist replying."

"She's right," Kurt agreed. "I bet Barbra Streisand wouldn't take this. Barbra wouldn't give up! She'd keep fighting! You won't stop, right?"

"I won't!" Rachel crowed proudly. "I can do this!"

When Rachel hopped off the stool to jump into Round Three, Kurt allowed himself a moment to laugh.

"She's _so_ easy to motivate," Kurt grinned.

Quinn nodded, a coy smile on her lips. "You have _no _idea."

"Gross, Quinn. Gross."

* * *

"Feeling the heat yet, Berry?" Santana mocked, as the hurried pattering of their feet continued hopping around each other, waiting for the other's next move. "Give up?"

"Never, especially not you!"

As Rachel landed a punch on Santana's jaw, a frenzied Jacob Ben Israel was taking bets within the crowd, scribbling names on a notepad and offering the odds.

"Five dollars on Lopez!" Karofsky insisted.

"Ten on Berry!" Azimio ordered. "She's crazy, but she's crazy-hot! Puckerman knows what he's talking about! Totally gonna win!"

"I'm on Berry's side, too!" Strando yelled. "Ten bucks!"

Meanwhile, Santana smacked an overcut—easier ratio for taller fighters to shorter fighters—against Rachel's temple, and Rachel slammed a right hook, knocking Santana's head back like whiplash. Taking advantage of Santana's momentary spot of vulnerability, Rachel leveled several short, straight punches, making Santana catch her breath.

**[GREAT! EXCELLENT! FANTASTIC! PERFECT!]**

Santana returned to the scuffle with a devastating wallop to Rachel's cheek, sending her face sideways with the force of the blow.

Rachel, spitting blood, slammed a swat onto Santana's hipbone, making Santana throw a retaliatory punch, but miss completely and allow Rachel an opening.

Rachel swung a strike against Santana's shoulder, forcing her backwards and fuming as the bell rang once again, signaling the end of the fourth round already.

"Puck isn't a good referee," Kurt remarked disapprovingly.

"He likes watching us get all sweaty," Rachel puffed, drinking some water and wiping her forehead. Kurt flailed around uselessly, trying and failing to clean Rachel up.

"And staring at your chest," Quinn added dreamily, and turned scarlet. "I...that came out wrong. I'm—you know, just forget I said anything. How are you doing?"

"You were looking at my chest?" Rachel asked slyly, grinning. "Oh, wait. Of course you were."

"I was," Quinn admitted. "I mean, how could I not?"

"I really don't know."

"I do," Kurt interjected impatiently. "This is not for my eyes. Or ears. I'm scarred for life, all because of you two hornbitches. Rachel, I expect more payments."

"Another spa day, hmm...maybe a shopping trip at Marc Jacobs for you," Rachel mused absentmindedly, eyes fixed on Quinn's body, who squirmed uncomfortably.

"Hurry up and kick her ass, please," the blonde muttered. "I _totally_ want to—"

"There's the bell!" Kurt squeaked pointedly, red in the face. "Get up, stop your fornicating allusions, and go, because you're traumatizing me. Please!"

Rachel loped off to the center of the ring with a silly grin on her features, and Quinn grumbled a curse.

"Thanks a lot," the blonde swore, disgruntled. "I'll make her steal a solo from you as punishment, Hummel."

"You're always evil as your Exes," Kurt shrieked. "Quinn Fabray, I swear, you—"

"Round Five," Becky yelled, caught up in the moment. "Go, go, go!"

* * *

"You're totally going to lose," Santana sneered.

"No, you are. Quinn promised some alone time," Rachel protested, blocking a punch with her vertically held forearms. "That's incentive to win with flying colors!"

"Wow," Santana jeered sarcastically. "Sounds fun. I would know."

"Jealous?"

A fierce cuff to the maimed ear stopped Rachel from savoring her insult, and she staggered, glove clutching the side of her head. Santana didn't stop to gloat; instead, she swung a jab into Rachel's exposed stomach, making the smaller brunette cough out a puff of air. Feeling the burn of Santana's gloved fists against her defensive stance, Rachel shoved her adversary backwards, forcing a punch against Santana's block, and repeated the gesture, looking for an opening. When Santana's hip was accidentally unguarded, Rachel swung her arm sideways, slamming a kidney shot and then, when Santana yelped aloud, Rachel began a series of seemingly unending hits and chops.

**[WOW! GOOD JOB! GOOD FORM! NICE!]**

**[PERFECT! EXCELLENT! FANTASTIC! TERRIFIC!**** _GREAT!_]**

Santana managed to fend her off and suddenly, in Rachel's haze of determination and tiredness, completely missed the gloved fist flying directly at her face.

**[WHAM! MEGA-HIT!]**

Rachel's head snapped backwards, and propelled by the momentum, felt her feet slide forward, and finally, with a thunderous crash, landed flat on her back, nursing a bloodier, bruised nose and a whopping headache to boot. The mob screamed with approval and some distaste, and Rachel stared blankly at the lights above, dazed.

"Rachel, get up!" Kurt yelled. "Hurry!"

Puck crouched down to his knees, looking slightly grim as he scrutinized her condition, and brought the microphone back to his lips. "Ten...nine...eight..."

"Rachel, come on!" Quinn shouted desperately. "You've got this! Don't stop now!"

"Get up!" Blaine hollered, accidentally dropping the popcorn into Tina's lap and climbing onto his chair in order to see Rachel better. "Don't let her win, Rachel!"

The crowd was booing in a deafening roar, and Santana's arrogant laughter could be heard over the din, astoundingly unruffled by her own injuries.

"...seven...six...five," Puck persisted, looking half-confident and half-regretful. "Rach, come on," he added lowly, betraying his League for his fellow Jew. "You can do it."

"Rachel, get up!" Quinn yelled, rattling the ropes. "You're giving up! You _never _give up! Don't let the Exes win!"

"...four...three..."

Rachel, ignoring the splintering, agonizing pain in her head and legs, groaned audibly and wriggled her hips, before rolling over, climbing to her knees and standing up.

_Ding, ding._

"Corners," Becky ordered loudly as best she could over the crowd's shrieks at Rachel's decision to keep fighting and the outcome of their bets. "Now!"

* * *

"Good God, you look like absolute shit," Quinn cursed, wiping Rachel's face with a towel. "Great job out there, though."

"Thanks," Rachel breathed, accepting the water Kurt passed her with a sympathetic smile.

Quinn's fingertips grazed Rachel's cheekbone as she examined the purpling skin, and scowled. "If she breaks your jaw, I'm slipping Ex-Lax into her drinks for a year."

"That's disgusting," Rachel sighed. "Quinn, I don't know if I can win this."

"You can, Rachel. I believe it. _Really_."

"She's taller than me and has way more experience—I read about techniques on the Internet," Rachel muttered. "It's like watching cartoons over musicals. No contest."

"It's just one challenge to do, all relationships are like that, sort of," Quinn protested. "My exes are just...enthusiastically looking out for me."

"My exes wouldn't try to kill you every five minutes," Rachel pointed out. "Maybe this is one test I can't beat."

Quinn's eyes hardened. "Well, if you _decide_ to win while keeping our relationship and not giving up like the loser you aren't, Santana has a weakness that you can exploit."

"Insulting her doesn't work," Rachel mumbled tiredly.

"Pay attention to where she blocks the most," Quinn urged. "Her face isn't it. She didn't care for the black eyes you probably gave her because that doesn't slow her down."

Rachel stared across at Santana, who was talking briskly with Finn, Sam silently listening behind them. Rachel eyed her own gloved hands, and glanced back at Quinn.

"A weak spot, you say."

"Yes."

Rachel's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Does it involve intimate knowledge of—"

"Sort of," Quinn interrupted, nodding. "Brittany told me after I noticed it. Do you understand, though?"

"Yeah," Rachel replied with conviction. "Each time I get close to it, she fights me off harder than before."

"Use it _only_ when you need it," Quinn advised. "Keep going carefully, smack her around a bit, use the weak spot, and then go for the kill."

"Okay," Rachel nodded when Becky started to toll the bell impatiently, Jacob Ben Israel at her side, documenting the fight with a continuous set of scrawled notes.

"Good luck," Quinn offered. "You'll need it."

"Thanks, and Quinn, I'm sorry about—"

"Don't be," the blonde interrupted gently. "You have right to be upset. It is really unfair. But I just thought since you've gotten this far already, you can go to the end."

"I know, and I will," the diva promised. Quinn grinned as Rachel stood up, placing her mouthguard between her teeth, shook her shoulders, and strode to the middle.

"Round Six!" Becky shouted. "Go!"

* * *

Santana didn't waste time on pleasantries or fake outs—she jumped right to Rachel with a flurry of fists, and Rachel parried them away as closely as possible.

"Tired?"

"No," Rachel snapped.

"You look it—I'd give up, if I were you," Santana taunted.

"If you were me, you'd be dating Quinn. Meaning you'd," Rachel huffed when a punch glanced off her shoulder, "be fighting everyone else. And you would give up."

"So?"

"So your comparison is pointless," the smaller brunette answered, wincing as her fist sent a shiver of pain up her arm. "You'd give up Quinn. I'm not."

The Latina didn't reply; she leveled a slam onto Rachel's collarbone, and Rachel growled, landing a blow on Santana's cheek, who promptly swore.

The horde of students were still yelling praises and insults, shouting for the chosen winner. Rachel silently found it amazing the teachers hadn't tried to arrive yet.

Steeling herself, Rachel maneuvered a whirlwind of hits and punches, hitting Santana in the jaw, shoulders, neck, and upper body, specifically, the area of summer surgery.

"You punched me in the boobs," Santana snarled angrily. "You're dying today, Berry. Obviously."

Puck barely stifled a laugh.

"Wow," Rachel remarked, unimpressed. "I'm terrified."

Santana's anger seemed to heighten, even if the scales began to tip visibly in Rachel's favor.

**[NICE JOB! GOOD SWING! PERFECT FORM!]**

When the Latina was wearing down (Rachel wasn't in tiptop shape, either, she was practically dead on her feet and bruised like a sensitive fruit), the diva took her chance.

Keeping Santana distracted by darting around, as if deciding her next move, Rachel swiped off one glove, and quick as a flash, snaked a hand near Santana's exposed hip.

"Oh, shit," Santana gasped, almost a groan, when Rachel touched skin again, harder—the crowd, Puck, and Brittany yelled, raucous and appreciative, while Kurt turned a bright shade of green—before stepping back to the shaking, dizzily desirous Latina and smacked a uppercut, stronger and faster than Rachel attempted before. The combined impact of her weak spot and the colossal force of the hit made Santana dissolve into thousands of glittering coins, showering the ring and cheering crowd with currency.

**[KO! KO! KO!]**

**[WINNER!]**

Rachel blinked as Puck's voice boomed into the microphone: "...THE WINNER IS RACHEL BERRY, USING THE COMBINED TECHNIQUES OF FORCE AND SEX! _DAMN!_"

"Yes!" Azimio applauded gleefully. "She won me some money! You go, girl!"

"Me too!" Strando yelled. "Nice job, Berry!"

The mob's delighted shrieks and cheers made Rachel's lips quirk into a small, relieved, but still very exhausted, smile.

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES +7,000 POINTS, +200 HEALTH, AND FIVE LEVELS UP. TERRIFIC!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES AN EXTRA LIFE (+)]**

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES VEGAN POWER: FLIGHT]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S NEW RATING: **Kick-ass**]**

Puck clapped Rachel on the back, making her knees buckle. "That was too hot for words. Thanks. Good job out there, kid."

"Rachel!" Brittany cheered, waving madly. "That was so cool! I'd hug you but I have to find Santana!"

"I'm here, Britt," Santana mumbled, sporting a heap of injuries and ambling to face Rachel, and stuck out her hand. "Good fight, Berry."

"Thank you, Santana," Rachel countered. "I'm surprised at your sportsmanship."

"Formality," was the reply. "Had to fight you because they inducted me into the League. No hard feelings. Of course, once I'm cured up, I might slushie you for hitting me."

"Fair enough," Rachel beamed, and turned around to find Quinn, and located the blonde by her stool, waiting patiently with Kurt.

"Fantastic, Rach," Kurt grinned. "Although you and Santana...um, that was...a sight to see."

"It didn't mean anything, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel," Rachel scowled. "I was using her form of Kryptonite to win. Sheesh."

Quinn simply smiled at the exchange, placing a light, careful kiss on Rachel's forehead. "Let's go get you home and patched up."

Rachel climbed ungracefully out of the ring as the crowd dissipated, all talking animatedly and laughing at the spectacle. Rachel yawned, letting Quinn support her weight.

"I'm glad you won," Quinn remarked. "That knocked Santana down a few pegs."

"Me too. I was afraid that I'd have to give all of my Broadway things to Kurt, or worse, end up paralyzed and I'd be begging you to cut my life support."

"You only said that because you just boxed," Quinn grumbled. "This isn't _Million Dollar Baby._"

"It would be," Rachel protested. "You wouldn't leave me in a hospital bed forever, would you?"

Kurt, waiting impatiently for Blaine to finish talking with Tina and Mercedes, was unfortunately privy to their conversation, already turning to unmentionable things.

"No. I'd be the sexy nurse who'd fix you up with a cure of my own discovery," Quinn quipped smugly.

"True," Rachel acquiesced. "Okay, it's settled. On the way to my house, we're stopping at iParty. I'm seeing you in that nurse outfit."

"Deal," Quinn purred, and Kurt watched them leave, wrinkling his nose. Blaine, done chatting, intertwined their hands, frowning quizzically at Kurt's stricken expression.

"What's wrong, Kurt?"

"I have heard more terrible things today than in my entire life," Kurt muttered. "Those stupid hornbitches."

Blaine knew enough not to ask about Kurt's quirks, and simply kept quiet.

"You're taking me to Marc Jacobs," Kurt ordered, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, as Blaine watched, amused. "I need my sanctuary."


	6. Do You Quarrel, Sir

**Title: **Rachel Berry vs. The World

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Mike/Tina, Santana/Brittany, mentions of Quinn/others

**Setting: **Mid-season two, with Rachel and Finn broken up, and Quinn and Sam also are no longer an item. Spoilers from anything aired, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _unfortunately, nor do I own _Scott Pilgrim vs. The World._

_

* * *

_

**Last (very long, by the way) chapter! Might turn out a little predictably—I guess I'm not very good with surprises. I hope it's satisfactory, in any case.**

**It's been a great time writing this fic, and I'm glad all of you enjoyed it.**

**If you wouldn't mind, I'd love for you all to look out for more of my Faberry stories****—I've got quite a few lined up.** Thanks!

_

* * *

_

"Let's begin," Jacob Ben Israel declared, camera hovering beside the table—handled by an AV geek—and held his microphone to his mouth. "Hello, McKinley High! I'm Jacob Ben Israel, your blogger extraordinaire/reporter, and welcome to an exclusive interview with our favorite superstar and future Broadway ingenue, Rachel Barbara Berry."

"It's _Barbra_," Rachel corrected irritably. "As in Barbra Streisand. She removed the 'A' because—"

"Let's not focus on silly formalities and get back to the story," Jacob interrupted impatiently. "Now, as everyone who's anyone knows, you're currently in the most dangerous battle of your life against our Head Cheerio's League of Evil Exes. Did you ever dream of something like this happening when you started dating Quinn Fabray?"

"No," Rachel answered, shaking her head, but managed a smile. "Of course, dating Quinn is a lovely experien—"

"How do you feel about the constant pressure to succeed and the possibility of failure?" Jacob queried.

"I've always worked terrifically under pressure," Rachel replied smoothly. "I've been coping as calmly as I can, with a lot of assistance from my fellow diva, Kurt Hummel."

"And yet, the Seventh Evil Ex remains anonymous," Jacob mused, glancing conspiratorially to the camera. "Your efforts to unravel the mystery so far have been...fruitless."

"For the moment," Rachel huffed, offended, crossing her arms. "I intend to discover their identity soon and prepare myself accordingly."

"Does it bother you that Quinn hooked up with her two best friends before you, along with your own ex, Finn Hudson?"

"No, I—"

"How do you feel about the possibility that Quinn could choose one of her exes over you?" Jacob asked. "In essence, you'd become the Eighth Evil Ex."

"It'd be her decision, and of course I'd—"

"What if the Seventh Ex is too difficult a foe to face?"

"Wait a second, I—"

"What exactly will happen when you're finally defeated? Will you be on the market again? Will you try to date Quinn illegally, risking more attacks from the League?"

Kurt and Blaine, sitting silently on the other side of the room, noticeably winced, anticipating the worst reaction. Rachel's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean, _when_?" The brunette barked out dangerously, as Jacob blanched. The cameraman retreated slightly, but kept the shot going. Business was business.

"Well, both of my conferences with my bookie and the general, nearly unanimous consensus of the school, excluding Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Quinn Fabray, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mike Chang, Mercedes Jones, Azimio Adams, and Strando, points out that you're the underdog and definite loser when you encounter the final Evil Ex."

Rachel scowled and beckoned the nervous cameraman closer, who complied warily.

"I've decided to make my own special, _personal_ announcement to everyone in McKinley High who doubts me and my determination for victory."

"Excuse me, the interview—"

"The interview can wait, Jacob," Rachel snapped. "I'm sure to have hundreds more when I'm a successful star and eventual EGOT winner, so be quiet, for once."

She plastered a fake smile on her lips, and Kurt sighed. So much for the soothing exercises he'd suggested. Rachel was apparently past behaving calmly and rationally.

"My campaign to continue my relationship with Quinn is none of anyone's business, except for the perverts who loiter on my street," Rachel informed the camera, sparing a withering glare on a cowering Jacob. "I will not be hindered by immaturity and jealousy, because both Quinn and I are happy and lucky, unlike most of the population of less talented students. The altercation between the Seventh Evil Ex and I will not be tampered with, for so help me, I can contact the ACLU and sue anyone who interferes."

Rachel paused, letting Jacob compose himself.

"Well, let's move on, shall we? How do you feel about the—"

"Interview's over, JewFro," Quinn interrupted, stepping on the cameraman's foot, making him to shut off the device. The blonde sauntered to a fearful Jacob, who gulped.

"Leave Rachel alone," the cheerleader commanded, as the boy became more terrified by the minute. "Or I'll have you slushied twice a day by every sports team, thrown in dumpsters in the mornings and locked inside, and lastly, have my amazing girlfriend tell me all of the secrets and embarrassing moments she knows of you at the Temple."

"She wouldn't," Jacob squeaked. "Jews have to stick together, right?"

"Quit stealing my catchphrase," Puck growled, lingering in the classroom doorway. "And no, us _hot_ Jews stick together. Not beady-eyed, little trolly freaks like you."

"This is harassment," Jacob protested.

"This is ridiculous," Kurt remarked irritably. "Get out, Jacob. Just so you know, Blaine doesn't just like football—he likes mixed martial arts, too."

Blaine, catching on quickly, sneered and pointedly flexed his arms, while Puck copied the gesture, leering. Rachel and Quinn exchanged barely stoic looks, close to laughter.

Jacob stumbled when Quinn released his collar, and straightened his sweater, trying awkwardly to regain his dignity. "...now, if you'll excuse me, I have a blog to write—"

"And facts to fabricate," Rachel added bitingly, sending him a glower. Jacob promptly retreated, nearly sprinting out of the classroom, followed by his silent accomplice.

"Well, that was fun," Quinn grinned, giving Rachel a kiss. "By the way, Blaine, you looked—"

"Quite menacing," Rachel interjected, beaming. Quinn giggled in agreement.

"Pretty badass, for a ex-Sparrow or whatever," Puck nodded approvingly. "Good job."

"Absolutely handsome," Kurt concluded delightedly, looking ecstatic. "I _loved_ it."

Blaine blushed.

"Noah, are you on my support team now?" Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you were loyal to the League."

"Pulling a Benedict Arnold," Puck shrugged. "Did my test, lost, whatever. Besides, I'd rather be on a team with my Baby Mama and my Hot Little Jewish American Princess."

"Thank you, Noah," Rachel beamed, while Quinn rolled her eyes, trying not to smile, and Kurt snickered. "That's very sweet of you."

"Anything for you, Rach," Puck winked. "_Anything_."

"And he's back," Quinn commented dryly. "Never fails."

"We need a team name," Blaine offered suddenly, still red in the face. "All of us on Rachel's side, anyway. Something to be distinguished from everyone else."

"Team Sexy," Puck declared proudly, promptly showing off the guns. "How 'bout it? I'll be the leader, obviously."

"Team Sexy," Quinn agreed. "Nice."

"I like it," Blaine grinned.

"Vote's three to two, Rachel," Kurt sighed. "We won't get input with these morons."

"I don't mind!" Rachel chirped. "I'm perfectly okay with being on a team calling me desirable. Except, I'll be the leader, Noah. I am the one fighting the Evil Exes, after all."

"I'm alone in a roomful of idiots," Kurt grumbled. "The name is just plain silly."

"The name is 'Sexy'," Puck insisted stubbornly. "Why d'you think both of them hooked up with me in the first place?"

* * *

"Why aren't you guys paying attention?"

Blaine, Kurt, Quinn, Rachel, and Puck looked up from their whispering huddle, and Mr. Schue sighed.

"What are you doing?"

"Planning schematics," Rachel answered shortly. "I need to be ready."

"But we need to—"

"Mr. Schuester, I'm not sure if I've made this perfectly clear. I'm in the final of the fight of my life and I cannot participate during glee at the moment. Perhaps later."

Mr. Schue looked to the rest of the group for help, but they simply shrugged and pointed unanimously to Quinn.

"What?" The blonde demanded.

"Would you mind joining in our discussion and somehow convincing Rachel to do the same?"

"Sorry, Mr. Schue. If I had to pick between discussing a competition or a lesson or whatever and helping Rachel, I'm always helping Rachel first," Quinn replied dismissively.

"Me too," Kurt seconded. Blaine nodded, and Puck narrowed his eyes, as if to agree.

Rachel flounced haughtily out of the room, nose in the air, followed obediently by her team, and Santana rolled her eyes.

"Midget."

"You're just mad I told Quinn who told Rachel about your secret spot," Brittany pouted.

"Things like that are supposed to be kept secret, Britt."

"Yeah, Santana would've won if Rachel didn't know," Finn added, looking sullen. "Then any of us could've gone for Quinn without any problems."

"Um, hello?" Mike interjected, indicating his interlocked right hand in Tina's left. "I wouldn't be going for Quinn. I have Tina, remember?"

"Good—less of a chance to lose," Finn nodded presumptuously. "I'd only be against—"

"Regardless," Mr. Schue cut in testily, "I need to know how long this League operation is going to continue. I can't have my students walking out like this."

"We don't know," Sam answered, shrugging. "It's up to the last Ex, and we aren't allowed to say anything. We signed a pledge contract thingy or something."

"Evil Ex," Mercedes corrected.

"So no one knows?" Mr. Schue questioned, looking pointedly at Santana, who glared.

"Don't even think of asking me. I'm still recovering. I had to lie to my mother and say I walked into a door, fell down the stairs, and off the pyramid before she bought it."

"And you're still mad about your special spot," Brittany nodded, unsurprised. Santana sighed.

"All I'll say about it is a good luck to Berry. She's definitely going to need it."

* * *

The next day, Rachel met Blaine in the lunchroom, both casting suspicious glances around the room, just in case.

"Have any intel?" She murmured to him, and Blaine shook his head regretfully. Kurt, Quinn, and Puck were in the lunch line, while Blaine and Rachel sat at the table.

"Kurt and I skipped classes all day just to observe students in the hallway, but no good," the ex-Warbler answered. "I'm sorry, Rachel."

"That's perfectly fine, Blaine. You did your best, if not better."

"How are you doing?"

"Trying not to panic," Rachel admitted. "I honestly have no idea who it'll be or when. It's nerve-wracking."

Blaine took her hand and squeezed it, smiling. "You'll do it. Kurt, Quinn, Puck, and I all believe in you."

"Hey, Anderson," Quinn joked as she was sitting down. "Stealing my girl?"

"Pawing off my boyfriend, Rachel?" Kurt asked, grinning. Blaine and Rachel laughed.

"We were actually planning a secret rendezvous," Blaine deadpanned. "Our illicit affair needs a special hideout."

"In Columbus," Rachel agreed.

"Rachel," Blaine chided mockingly as Rachel giggled, "it's not a secret anymore."

"Oops. Kurt, Quinn, you don't mind, do you?"

"Losers," Puck sighed, rolling his eyes. "I might be on your side, but I won't listen to this pansy shit."

"You're just like Santana," Quinn grumbled, pouting at the lost banter session. Puck leered.

"In what way, Quinn?"

"Puckerman," Rachel warned. "Don't make me turn out any Temple secrets on _you._"

"Deal," Puck quipped hurriedly. "What happens at the Temple stays at the Temple."

Their lunch was spent in peace until, out of nowhere, something smacked Kurt off the back of the head, and as he exhaled a gasp of surprise, Blaine looked around to check.

"It's...an egg," Blaine sputtered. "Who throws an egg at someone?"

Quinn promptly turned as red as tomato in embarrassed shame, Puck looked disappointed but expectant, and Rachel's eyes darkened.

She should've known a long time ago. Obviously intended for her, the projectile had simply hit Kurt by mistake.

Before anyone could react further, Karofsky, having seen the incident, bellowed as loud as he could: "FOOD FIGHT!"

Rachel and Kurt dived under the table, Quinn sat motionless, as Puck and Blaine unhesitatingly began to throw their lunches in every direction as the room exploded into delighted shrieks and laughter, slushies, sandwiches, and anything else edible was tossed into the air and at the others around them, lunch monitors roaring for order.

"What the fuck?" Rachel was yelling. "What the fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_?"

Kurt flinched. "Rachel, I wouldn't sink to profanity at a time like this. We need to get out unscathed and by unscathed, I mean clean. Especially the hair. I need to fix it."

"How could she do this?" Rachel exclaimed, scowling. She aimed a punch at Quinn's knee, who yelped, and stuck her head under the table, covered in food.

"Hey!"

"Hey, what!" Rachel growled. "What do you think?"

"I can explain," Quinn pleaded, dodging a volley of tots from a laughing Mercedes and Tina. "Before you actually get challenged. Please just give me the opportunity."

"Why?" Rachel demanded. "So you can lie again?"

"I didn't lie!" Quinn protested instantly. "I told you the three guys you'd assume to be the biggest problems with us! You didn't ask about anyone else! I would've said so!"

"You claimed you were sworn to secrecy," Rachel snapped. "The email they sent you, remember?"

"I was, but I would've broken it for you," Quinn insisted desperately. "I would've, Rachel. Please let me explain it."

"Ladies, we don't have time for this," Kurt piped up. "My hair is in mortal peril. Quinn, pass me the lunch trays. Rachel, you'll come with me to cool down. You have to."

"We'll talk about this later, Quinn," Rachel snarled. "Kurt, let's go."

The two divas, heads covered safely by the trays, scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the doors, sliding across the slimy floor and nearly falling, but managed to escape.

"Don't worry, Quinn!" Puck shouted over the cacophony of howling students and screaming teachers. "She'll win it and forgive you! Trust me!"

"I hope so," Quinn mumbled sadly, letting food hit her without a reaction, too upset to care. "I have to tell her something."

* * *

"I can't believe her," Rachel fumed, as Kurt tossed her gym clothes and pointed to a bathroom stall. "She lied to my face the entire time!"

"She didn't lie, sweetie," Kurt soothed, checking his reflection. "She just didn't tell you about him. It's different."

"But _him_, Kurt?" Rachel asked unhappily, exiting the stall and tugging her shirt lower. "_Him_? He got to her too?"

"He's an influential, charismatic guy," Kurt countered, satisfied with his hair. "Who wouldn't he ensnare? Quinn's pretty, for a girl, at least. Of course he'd get her."

"I'd like to know when," Rachel remarked quietly, looking upset. "When did he and Quinn date, if at all?"

"A long time ago," a voice interrupted, sounding suspiciously akin to jealousy, as a girl stepped into the bathroom, her dress a bright, bluish hue with a black silhouette.

"You," Rachel greeted coldly.

"Me," Giselle smirked. "Berry."

"...Giselle. I don't know your last name. I apologize. It lightens the melodramatic effect of our confrontation."

"How's life treating you?" Giselle inquired, ignoring the latter part of Rachel's answer. "Still having eggs sunny side up?"

"No, I'm a vegan," Rachel snapped. "You already know this, which makes your insult less degrading to me and more of a slap in the face to your intelligence, Giselle."

Kurt snorted as the female lead of Vocal Adrenaline scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Whatever, Berry. Follow me. You too, I guess," she ordered, gesturing aimlessly to Kurt.

"Where are we going?"

"Your auditorium," Giselle answered simply, leading the way out of the bathroom. "Easier that way when he defeats you."

"You'd sooner slander the perfection of Idina Menzel than actually believe that Jesse can even think of triumphing over me," Rachel barked. "Moron."

"He's done it before," Giselle shrugged, unperturbed, "what makes you think he can't do it again?"

Despite Kurt's encouraging, sympathetic whispers as they traipsed to the April Rhodes Civic Pavilion, Rachel couldn't feel anything more than fury and desperation.

* * *

"You're disgusting," were the first two words out of Rachel's mouth before she could stop herself.

He stood, center stage, so close to his rendition of _Another One Bites The Dust,_ she felt sick. His eyes, feral and engaging as always, glinted with amusement and contempt. His hair, meticulously styled, looked exactly the same. His arms, crossed over his chest, were relaxed, despite the stance. His mouth, quirked into its usual smirk, angered her. Behind him, standing like soldiers, was Vocal Adrenaline, wearing those jackets she'd grown to loathe, looking quite smug and superior. One of them, a boy, snickered.

The glee club stood on the side—no Mr. Schue—looking half-surprised and half-scornful. Quinn sat by herself, head bowed and closer to the stage than Rachel would've liked.

"Rachel," was the reply, condescending and velvety as before, "how are you?"

"Let's skip to the fight, shall we?" The brunette scowled. "I don't want to look at you or talk to you any longer than I absolutely have to."

Jesse's practiced showface showed a slight hint of irritation. "No, Rachel. I'd prefer to actually continue a civilized conversation with you first."

"You'd like to gloat," Rachel sneered. "Fine."

Jesse's smile didn't waver, only widened. "As you must've guessed, I am the Seventh Evil Ex of Quinn Fabray, and founding member of the League of Evil Exes."

"Obviously."

"And for those who didn't know that," Jesse went on, sparing a little jeer toward his brunette ex-girlfriend, then Kurt and Blaine, "surprise!"

"He's like a rambling villain," Kurt muttered in Rachel's ear. "Once you get him started, you'll never get it to stop. My condolences."

"Anyway, I created the League to show Quinn exactly what she's missing," Jesse persisted. "She, unlike my other love interests, didn't let me break up with her first."

"That's what this is about?" Rachel burst out. "Pride? Again? You stupid, annoying, selfish boys—"

"That's not it," Jesse exclaimed, looking certainly as if he wanted to stamp his foot. "I'm not done speaking, Rachel. At least grant me the courtesy to explain myself."

"I don't give chances to those who've lied to me," Rachel countered, and Quinn's head dipped lower in guilt, almost in her hands. Rachel ignored the blonde, just barely.

"Tut, tut. Ignoring Quinn doesn't help your confidence," Jesse taunted, but pressed on, looking wistful. "Anyway, our marvelous love story began when Quinn was only seven, and I, nine. We were in the same social circle—my parents, rich and successful, equally matched to both Fabrays. We shared a church, and met at very young ages."

Quinn sank lower into her seat, mortified, while the other glee kids, aside from the Exes, looked surprised. Rachel grimaced as Kurt, beside her, mimed vomiting.

"We kept in contact until high school, and when I was seventeen, and she, fifteen, finally shared a kiss. It was glorious, beautiful, touching, and—"

"That's just wrong," Rachel blurted out, shuddering. "Do you know how utterly and completely awful that sounds?"

"That's what I said," Santana commented. "It's weird. Maybe that's why they never talked when he was in McKinley."

Artie nodded. "I only joined the League to watch out for Quinn. And Jesse paid me. Sorry, Rachel."

"And me," Mike agreed. "I was also protecting Quinn, but...probably from the wrong person..." the dancer concluded, eyeing Jesse doubtfully.

"Definitely," Rachel muttered, horrified. Jesse scowled.

"Anyway, Quinn refused to be anything more than friends. She claimed to be part of the Celibacy Club, and that her father wouldn't appreciate me as her boyfriend."

(Finn scratched his head, confused at little at that one. Didn't he and Quinn date during her stint in the club?)

"Who would date you?" Kurt mumbled. "Sorry, Rachel."

"That's okay, Kurt."

"She should've considered all of the possibilities," Jesse went on. "We would be unstoppable. Her as Queen of McKinley, me as King of Carmel. Our portmanteau is St. Fabray. Besides our obvious wealth and social statuses, our couple name alone would just ooze royalty and power. Then, upon our own graduations, she'd join me at UCLA."

"I feel nauseated, do you?" Kurt whimpered. Rachel nodded, a nasty shade of green coloring her cheeks in her anticipated revulsion.

"After two overlapping college careers, then, as new alumna of UCLA, we would donate funds to have a wing dedicated in our name, so future students could admire us. We'd move to New York City, where she'd become a museum curator—because of her fantastic talents as an artist—and I'd obviously dominate Broadway. The end."

Jesse finished his observed soliloquy with a wide smirk, holding out his arms as if accepting applause. His Vocal Adrenaline cohorts chuckled quietly.

"You're disgusting," Rachel repeated when the silence—definitely awkward—stretched onward. "And you aren't in love with Quinn, you're just obsessed with her."

"It's insane, dude," Puck agreed. "I joined for the new Xbox and six new games, but this, man? I don't get it."

"I didn't find your addresses, information, offer you payment, and organize the League for your opinion," Jesse shot back. "Shut up, Puckerman."

Puck stiffened, but Mercedes caught his arm, shaking her head in a dissuading manner.

"So," Jesse announced, clapping his hands in a dramatic fashion, "enough chitchat."

"It's all from you!" Kurt exclaimed, looking around for support. "It's only been his monologue, right?"

"How the mighty show choir captains have fallen," Blaine remarked, almost disappointed. "Mr. St. James, I no longer have any respect for you."

"Anderson, you're a second-rate lead without his trusty backup singers, so spare me. Let's start the challenge. Rachel, I'd bring your A game."

* * *

Jesse, without waiting for further reply, revealed a remote in his hand, and pressed a single button.

Suddenly, the auditorium began to shudder, rumbling loudly, as if the foundations of the school were shifting in a near-earthquake. The walls pushed backwards, while the seats flattened to the floor—Quinn had gotten up and joined the other glee kids—creating a flawless, flat ground of black linoleum. The stage crawled forward as Rachel and Kurt stepped back reflexively in utter shock. The stage, still taken by a completely calm Jesse and Vocal Adrenaline, stopped advancing to the center, and instead began to rise into the air, climbing higher and higher until it towered as a gigantic monument. Two identical sets of staircases emerged from the structure, matching the linoleum in color. A large, ornate chair rose from the center of the pyramidal edifice, where Jesse sat down, looking very much like the pompous, imposing king he always claimed to be.

The April Rhodes Civic Pavilion, now transformed into a contemporary hall of black tiling, intimidating pyramid, and a stretching space, was nearly unrecognizable.

"Shit," Puck muttered. "Shit, shit, shit. He went all out."

"Probably emptied his account," Mercedes conceded. "I'll bet that trust fund is totally dried out."

"All for Quinn," Santana scoffed, as all eyes found a blushing, unhappily in the spotlight blonde, who scuffed her sneakers on the floor, painfully shy at the moment.

"I don't understand all the fireworks," Rachel remarked scornfully. "We could've just engaged in simple fisticuffs."

"No, it's my turn to organize a test," Jesse snapped indignantly. "The spectacle is only part of the production preluding to your loss."

"Whatever," Rachel badgered, impatient. "Let's fight."

"So we're clear, you want to fight me, for her?" Jesse asked. "Why on earth would you want to do that? She's a bully turned girlfriend and belongs to me, not to mention you're clearly at a lower level to me."

"First of all," the brunette growled, "she doesn't belong to anyone. She's her own person with a right to choose. And second, I'm fighting you because I'm in love with her."

Quinn's head snapped up, eyes widening in surprise, before brightening, looking as if the hazel-eyed gaze was actually sparkling.

**[RACHEL BERRY EARNED THE POWER OF LOVE! LEVEL UP!]**

A shimmering, samurai sword, sparkling with crimson radiance, seemed to weave itself from nullity, and floated unsupported until Rachel's fingers curled around the handle.

"Her sword," Mike breathed. "The one she used to defeat me! It all fits!"

"Aww," Jesse crooned sarcastically, "isn't that sweet. I think this deserves a song. VOCAL ADRENALINE, GO!"

**VOCAL ADRENALINE**

**RIVAL SHOW CHOIR/GRADE A ASSHOLES/FIVE-TIME NATIONAL WINNERS**

**MIXED AGES**

**RATING: **Breaktakingly amazing

"One, two, three, four!" Andrea Cohen roared, as Kurt scurried to the rest of the glee club with an apology over his shoulder to a now very much alone Rachel.

Vocal Adrenaline, splitting into seven groups of four, began to harmonize, voices melding together—in a perfect A cappella, mind you—before the angelic singing tones drifted into a familiar melody. Rachel almost rolled her eyes when she identified the song, and Quinn's eyebrows drew together in confusion, having not heard the song at the time.

"_Is the real life? Is this just fantasy..."_

"Seriously?" Rachel yelped. "Pathetic! You're using a song you already performed? How unoriginal, Jesse!"

Jesse, halfway through singing his first two lines ("_I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy..._") narrowed his eyes without pausing and gestured his cohorts forward.

Four Vocal Adrenaline singers, immediately after ceasing their chorus, sprinted down the pyramid, leaping and flipping over to Rachel like martial artists.

Her sword was efficient and true as she sliced and diced, and her four attackers disappeared in a flurry of coins, and when they didn't reappear, Rachel gasped.

"Are they dead?" She yelled to the other Exes when four more vocalists hastened to her, the rest continuing the tune in loud belting shouts.

"No!" Artie hollered helpfully over the chorus. "They just reappear at Carmel High! Don't worry about it!"

_"Bismilliah! No, we will not let you go! Let him go!"_

_"Bismillah! We will not let you go—let me go! Will not let you go—let me go!"_

Rachel's swings with sword were flawless and it seemed as if coins were constantly showering the hall in an expensive, shiny storm of currency.

When Jesse was left singing furiously with only four comrades, he waved his hand and the harmonies ceased. Rachel smirked, twirling her sword, as her ex-boyfriend sulked.

**JESSE ST. JAMES**

**CURRENT ULCA FRESHMEN/FORMER VOCAL ADRENALINE LEAD/PROBABLE HOLDER OF THE NEXT 'MELACHIOR GABOR'/DICKHEAD**

**18 AND HALF YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Theatrically, marvelously and excessively sensational

Jesse readjusted his showface, confidence returning, much to Rachel's disappointment.

* * *

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: JESSE ST. JAMES, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[CHALLENGE: BOSS BATTLE]**

**

* * *

**

Her superiority diminished instantly when her enemy, unsheathing a sword hidden in his throne, beckoned her tauntingly, customary sneer in place. Rachel didn't waste a moment—she dashed up the staircase, her surroundings becoming blurred as she and Jesse sprinted at each other, resembling a game of chicken. Their sword met in a clash of steel on steel, and before Rachel knew it, she was flying backwards, landing on the linoleum with a hard smack, her weapon shattering into a million, crystalized rubies.

Rachel, half-sitting up tiredly, scowled, and ground out: "Your hair sucks, by the way. Jesse, I would recommend a different brand of gel. Maybe you should ask Blaine."

"Burn," Kurt muttered. Puck nodded appreciatively.

Jesse ignored both of them, sword resting against his shoulder as he descended the stairs, still wearing that aggravating smirk.

"I actually feel a little sympathetic for you, Rachel," Jesse commented. "I'm just taking everything from you. Your trust, your mother, your Regionals trophy, and now?"

His steps stopped by her hand, and he pointed the sword between her eyes. "I'll be taking your girlfriend, and next, your life."

Rachel, in sudden panic as Jesse reared back, about to jam the blade through her face, squeaked out: "Not my voice!"

"Brutal," Santana muttered to Puck. "He's a total psycho."

"This is like _Fear,_" Quinn mumbled. "I seriously need to hide from Jesse, like forever."

"Shut it, Fabray," Santana shot back. "You're still the leper. Even associating with St. Dickless is treason. Even Berry deserves better than you."

Quinn looked away guiltily.

"Your voice?" Jesse questioned, both opponents unaware of the side conversation. "I _could_ stab you through the throat and take it then. That's be devastating, wouldn't it?"

"My voice, voice, uh, I...it wouldn't be a challenge," Rachel stammered, struggling to articulate an escape tactic without completely losing her cool, "It wouldn't be a challenge from Jesse St. James if we didn't have a singing competition! I demand we perform a duet to test who really deserves Quinn! She needs a competent partner—"

"—boyfriend—"

"—_partner_ who can compliment her vocally," Rachel concluded hastily, scrambling to her feet and out of harm's way. "I want a duet."

"If I win," Jesse countered, spinning the weapon like a helicopter's wing as he and Rachel circled each other, "I cut your throat out and you just die."

"I might be sick all over you," Kurt hissed to Blaine. "Fair warning."

"As long as you don't get my hair, Kurt, you can go as far as Linda Blair and I'd wouldn't care."

"If I win," Rachel insisted loudly, "you leave both Quinn and I alone and accept me as her girlfriend."

Jesse tapped his chin with his free hand, thinking it over.

"Fine. I pick the song—"

"No Queen," Rachel growled before Jesse could finish. "Or Lionel Richie."

"Seriously?" Jesse grumbled, disappointed. "Deal."

He snapped his fingers, and the band who habituated the choir room appeared, looking shaken and unsteady at their new surroundings.

"Traitors," Rachel muttered. The boy with the guitar shrugged helplessly, as the boy on the drums sighed, and held up a sign.

_We've been instructed not to speak to you._

Then, in smaller letters, was: _Though we will admit he threatened our ability to play music by smashing our fingers. Oh, and our lives too. Why did you date him, again?_

Rachel wrinkled her nose, shuddering but didn't answer, before turning her attention back to an impatient Jesse.

"Aside from your obvious lunatic tendencies and apparently new inclination for violence, I've been wondering how you've managed to defy the laws of physics and reality."

"Moving on," Jesse commanded, dismissive. "Orchestra, you know what to do."

An easy, jumping tempo commenced, and Jesse smirked as Rachel's expression looked torn between annoyance and exasperation as she recognized the tune.

"_What'd you forget?_"

"_Got a light_?"

A large meter appeared next to the duelists, and their voices, upon hitting the notes, made the bar lines unravel and continue before waning and vanishing into thin air.

"_I know you, you're...you're shivering_," Jesse crooned.

"_It's nothing, they turned off my heat, and I'm just a little...weak on my feet. Would you light my candle? What are you staring at?_" Rachel retaliated.

"_Nothing,_" Jesse scoffed, mouth twisting into a scowl at having to pseudo-compliment Rachel, "_your hair in the moonlight. You look familiar—can you make it?_"

The meter kept going, yet both were flawless, as per usual. The glee kids and remaining Vocal Adrenaline singers, watched on in admiring silence, in spite of the situation.

"_Just haven't eaten much today,_" Rachel shrugged. "_At least the room stopped spinning. Anyway, what?_"

"_Nothing, your smile reminded me of_—"

"—_I always remind people of...who is she?_"

"_She died. Her name was April—_"

"_It's out again_," Rachel interrupted, turning away a bit, "_sorry about your friend. Would you light my candle?_"

Jesse didn't add his segment to the lyrics, and the tempo continued, slightly monotonously, as the band members looked at each other, perplexed. Rachel, in confusion, glanced back and him and before she could react, saw Jesse rush forward and sling an arm around her shoulders, and with a contorted sneer, shove the sword into her chest. Rachel gasped, feeling the cold blade slice unevenly past her skin and underneath, torturously slow, while Quinn suddenly screamed, the noise piercing into the air.

**[OH NO! IT'S SUPER-EFFECTIVE!]**

Jesse let go, dropping Rachel uncaringly to the floor with a pretentious little smile.

"Game over," the boy chuckled, as Rachel's eyes drooped, trying to keep him in view while her head began to pound, "Rach. You can sing duels and solos all you want, but I don't see you doing that when you're _dead._"

**[KO! KO! KO!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY IS DEAD!]**

**[GAME OVER!]**

**

* * *

**

**[LIMBO...]**

**[PLEASE RELOAD FILE...]**

**[PLAY?]**

**[QUIT?]**

**

* * *

**

Rachel opened her eyes, seeing nothing but open sky, cloudless and cerulean. A slight wind grazed her face, and she blinked, sitting up and rubbing her head.

She was alone on a barren, depressing wasteland, a distant sun shining dimly, and she reflexively checked her chest, seeing no wound.

"Damn," she muttered. "I lost. Maybe I should've asked Noah for videogaming tips..."

"Talking to yourself?"

Rachel whipped around, and her eyes took in a tentative, gloomy Quinn, hands wringing together in nervousness.

"I thought I was alone."

"Hmm. I guess not."

Quinn let the conversation drop, and looked around awkwardly, trying to find an explanation. Rachel wondered how Quinn was here, but didn't ask.

"He sort of explained it all already," the blonde murmured. "I _do _want you to know that I never loved him. Ever. We were casual friends, and one day, he just kissed me."

"You should file a restraining order," the diva suggested uncomfortably. "That's considered sexual assault."

"I'll get on that."

"Not to mention he's stalking you," Rachel added when the silence became unpleasant again. "It's borderline resembling—"

"_Fear?_"

"Exactly."

"I wouldn't want to date anyone else if you lost," Quinn admitted. "I'd be too heartbroken after that."

"Why?"

"Are you stupid, Rachel?"

"No?"

"I wouldn't date anyone else because I love you," Quinn burst out. "I _love _you, Rachel. Not him, not any of the Exes. I just didn't get to tell you before Jesse barged in."

"Really?" Rachel asked, edging between hope and despair. "You mean that?"

"Of course I do," Quinn insisted, taking Rachel's hands. "I love everything about you. Your stubbornness, your exuberance, your sincerity, the way you dress, the way you smile after you belt out a particularly high note," the blonde trailed off, blushing slightly. "All of those little things I catch that others don't...and that you fought for me."

Rachel felt her heart swell in delight, as Quinn's eyes danced brightly.

"Because I love you," Rachel nodded in reply, a smile lifting on her lips. "I'd do it all over again, a hundred times, if I could keep you for a short while."

"Why can't you?"

"I lost!" Rachel exclaimed, gesturing hopelessly to the wasteland. "I'm in limbo, or the 'loading screen', Quinn! I can't play anymore, as much as I'd like to."

"You're forgetting something," Quinn reminded her, smiling, "something you've earned, fair and square?"

The memory of the ending of the fight with Santana practically bulldozed its way into Rachel's mind, and she grinned.

"The extra life?"

"Yes. I've played _Mario_ with Puck when I was pregnant. Take it, use it wisely."

"I'll be plenty wise," Rachel nodded, trailing touches along Quinn's wrists. "I know that Jesse won't hesitate to—literally—stab me in the back when I've turned around."

"You'll win this time," the blonde urged. "This is just a do-over."

"Don't rain on my parade," Rachel deadpanned, as Quinn burst into laughter, and shook her head.

"Go on, get going," Quinn insisted, pointing to the sky. "You've got a challenge to win, _lover_."

"You up there might not remember this little loving scene," Rachel sighed. Quinn leaned down, giving her a lingering, lovely kiss, before straightening up.

"Just prompt me," the cheerleader winked. "I love you up there, too. Believe that."

"Wish me luck," Rachel smiled, as a small, glowing, reddish cross hovered docilely by her ear. "I'll need it."

"Good luck," Quinn beamed. "Once you win, I'll make sure to reward you."

"A lot," Rachel urged, smirking, and Quinn's amused laughter was the last thing she heard before everything went black, and time rewound itself.

* * *

**[DO-OVER]**

**[LOADING...LOADING...]**

**

* * *

**

"...so we're clear, you want to fight me, for her?" Jesse asked. "Why on earth would you want to do that? She's a bully turned girlfriend and belongs to me, not to mention you're clearly at a lower level to me."

Rachel paused, situating to her new/old environment, and remembered what _not_ to say. Those words would be for later, when she was victorious and alone with Quinn.

And get her reward—that would be almost as awesome as exchanging real I-love-you's—but she had to concentrate right now, and wouldn't let Jesse cheat.

"First of all," the brunette growled, "she doesn't belong to anyone. She's her own person with a right to choose. And second, I'm fighting you for _me_."

"Uh, what?" Jesse asked, confused.

**[RACHEL BERRY EARNED THE POWER OF SELF-RESPECT! LEVEL-UP!]**

A shimmering, samurai sword, sparkling with violet radiance, seemed to weave itself from nullity, and floated unsupported until Rachel's fingers curled around the handle.

"Her sword," Mike breathed. "The one she used to defeat me! It all fits!"

"Aww," Jesse crooned sarcastically, "isn't that sweet. I think this deserves a song. VOCAL ADR—"

"Excuse me, yeah," Rachel interrupted, as Jesse bared his teeth, frustrated at the interference, "I don't have time to listen to your stupid soulless, annoying club...Finn!"

"Yeah?"

"Get on the drums," the brunette demanded, and snapped her fingers, and a set of drums, two guitars, and a keyboard popped into existence. "Now!"

"Okay?"

"Artie, use the guitar. Noah, the base. Blaine, the keyboard...all of you, play something encouraging. I need support," Rachel ordered. "I didn't even think that would work!"

"Hey!" Jesse yelled. "Those are _my_ new tricks with reality!"

"Let's just fight," Rachel suggested. "Or, I could just defeat your lackies instead."

"VOCAL ADRENALINE, GO!" Jesse bellowed. "SLAUGHTER HER!"

**VOCAL ADRENALINE**

**RIVAL SHOW CHOIR/GRADE A ASSHOLES/FOUR-TIME NATIONAL WINNERS**

**MIXED AGES**

**RATING: **Breaktakingly amazing

Rachel didn't waste time again—she took on the entire rival show choir, swinging and slicing like a pro, dodging punches and kicks as tons of coins showered the vicinity.

Finn, Puck, Artie, and Blaine jumped into a forceful, fierce melody, the guitar squealing and the drums smashing loudly in continuous, screeching roar.

Jesse's formidible battalion of singing soldiers was completely destroyed, racking up points for Rachel and making an ugly grimace form on her ex-boyfriend's face.

"How is that possible?" He shouted. "You—_them_...you're..._you_!"

"Luck, I suppose," the brunette answered, and beckoned with her sword, "let's dance."

Jesse swung his blade expertly as Rachel sprinted up the staircase, and the swords met in a thunderous crash of metal on metal, making the clamor reverberate and echo.

The diva and her competitor blocked blows and parries, and Rachel smashed her sword sideways, causing Jesse to topple off the pyramid and weapon smash into pieces.

"I imported that from Asia on overnight shipping," Jesse swore angrily. "You'll pay for that!"

"This is ridiculous," Rachel scoffed. "You and I aren't in a battle for Quinn without a proper duet to showcase our equal talents. Finn, run and get the band kids, please?"

Finn dashed off to comply—obedient as always—and Jesse heaved himself ungracefully to his feet, brushing dust off his clothes, looking disgruntled.

* * *

**JESSE ST. JAMES**

**CURRENT ULCA FRESHMEN/FORMER VOCAL ADRENALINE LEAD/PROBABLE HOLDER OF THE NEXT 'MELACHIOR GABOR'/DICKHEAD**

**18 AND HALF YEARS OLD**

**RATING: **Theatrically, marvelously and excessively sensational

* * *

"I can't wait to beat you," Jesse sneered. "Quinn will be mine, I hope you understand that one completely."

"I don't," Rachel retorted calmly. "I'll be the winner, Jesse, and you'll run back to UCLA with your tail between your legs and your pride demolished beyond repair."

"We'll see about that," Jesse snapped in a huff. "You'll be the one biting the dust, and I'll get the girl in the end."

"You're so cliche," Rachel muttered. "I don't remember why I dated you in the first place."

* * *

**[VS. MODE]**

**[PLAYERS: JESSE ST. JAMES, RACHEL BERRY]**

**[CHALLENGE: BOSS BATTLE]**

**

* * *

**

Finn returned with the band kids, who, at Rachel's instruction, began a different song—one of her favorites—as Jesse frowned, but joined in, too prideful to ignore her test.

The drums pounded, cymbals shivering in a haunting harmony with the keyboarder's poignant playing.

"_In sleep he sang to me...in dreams he came,_" Rachel began quietly, effortlessly imitating the persona of Christine. "_That voice that calls to me and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now I find...the Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind."_

_"Sing once again with me,_" Jesse continued as Erik, eyebrow raising in derision, "_our strange duet...my power over you grows stronger yet. And though you turn from me to glance behind...the Phantom of the Opera is there inside your mind._"

"_Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. I am the mask you wear..._"

"_...it's me they hear._"

"_My spirt and my voice_," Jesse and Rachel sang, sizing each other up with identical disdain, "_in one combined. The Phantom of the Opera is there inside your/my mind_."

"_He's there,_" Quinn piped up helpfully, joined by Mercedes and Tina, "_the Phantom of the Opera!_"

"_He's there!_" Rachel continued, voice rising in pitch. "_The Phantom of the Opera!_"

"_In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery_..." Jesse trailed off.

"..._were in both of you_..." Rachel countered easily, clutching her sword tighter but hid it from view as Jesse looked away, as if to revel in their duet.

"_And in this labyrinth, where the night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is here—is there—inside your—inside my—mind_," the duelists chanted, the tempo jumping a bit.

"_Sing, my angel of music!_" Jesse ordered dramatically, and turned around in annoyance when Rachel didn't add her part.

"What the fuck are you playing at? You can't just _stop_—"

Rachel shoved the sword into Jesse's abdomen instead of replying, as the Seventh Evil Ex choked and sputtered for breath, eyes darkening in tremendous rage.

"I'll sing," Rachel sneered, twisting the blade sideways, making Jesse yelp in pain, "I'll sing after Quinn and I engage in—"

"Gross!" Jesse shouted furiously. "Quinn is mine, you bitch!"

"She wasn't yours to begin with and never will be," Rachel snapped, "I won and beat your little League, get over it. Go back to UCLA, and maybe I'll see you on Broadway."

"When I'm Melchior and you're Wendla," Jesse growled menacingly as his form flickered and blurred in a reddish, hazy hue, "I'll be sure to hit you extra hard in Act I."

"And Quinn will make it all better afterwards," Rachel swore confidently with a devilish leer, and forced the blade deeper into her rival's midsection.

Jesse's body exploded into millions of coins, filling the hall with sparkling, gold treasure and making Rachel grin in triumph.

**[KO! KO! KO!]**

**[WINNER!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY RECEIVES 150,000,000 POINTS, +500 HEALTH, AND TEN LEVELS UP. WOW!]**

**[RACHEL BERRY HAS DEFEATED ALL ENEMIES. ****LEAGUE OF EVIL EXES—DESTROYED] **

**[RACHEL BERRY FORFEITS UNUSED VEGAN POWER OF FLIGHT]**

**[RACHEL BERRY'S PERMANENT RATING: **Wickedly perfect**]**

**[GAME OVER]**

"I did it," Rachel shouted. "I did it!"

Rachel turned to greet the others, who clapped supportively as Quinn made her way to the brunette, looking hesitant.

"Are you still angry at me?" Quinn asked softly. The rest of the glee club, drifting outside to give them some semblance of privacy, threw congratulatory smiles at Rachel.

Even Finn and Sam managed to be somewhat cheerful—Rachel's enthusiasm was contagious.

"No, Quinn, I'm not," Rachel answered, smiling. "Why would I be?"

"Because I didn't tell you about Jesse?"

"I overreacted," the diva shrugged smoothly, as a small, relieved smile appeared on her girlfriend's face. "We all have secrets."

"You mean that?"

"Of course. I've also been meaning to tell you that I'm in love with you. Must've slipped my mind."

Quinn's smile grew into a full-blown grin. "Really?"

"Yes. Why else would I go through all the trouble of fighting your immature ex-boyfriends, casual friends, and vengeful best friend?" Rachel asked. "Because I love you."

"In that case," Quinn beamed broadly, "I've also forgotten to tell you something, too."

"Let's hear it."

"I love you, Rachel Barbra Berry," the blonde declared sincerely. "I love your animal sweaters, determination, perseverance, personality...the list could go on forever."

"Maybe you could tell me all of it tonight," Rachel suggested, coy. "My house, which will be conveniently empty, by the way."

"Oh, will it?" Quinn mused, grinning wider as she blushed. "I'm game."

"You better be," Rachel insisted, tugging her toward the exit as the April Rhodes Civic Pavilion began to rearrange itself into its proper structure, "I worked so hard."

"Poor you," Quinn consoled teasingly. "I'll have to fix you up. You've beaten each and every Evil Ex—you deserve _special_ treatment."

"Like after Santana's challenge?"

"Exactly."

"Great," the brunette laughed eagerly. "Let's go."

* * *

**Duets: "Light My Candle" — Rent, "The Phantom of the Opera"** **— The Phantom of the Opera**

**

* * *

**

**END.**


End file.
